


Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-06-06 05:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 322,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.





	1. Chapter 1

What was that thing Darwin said?

Survival of the fittest? Evolve or die? Something a little less harsh, probably. Or maybe not. The guy was, after all, obsessed with turtles. Tortoises? Maybe.

Killian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push thoughts of Darwin and turtles and how much he absolutely despised the island of Manhattan from his mind. None of those things mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting to the office in one piece with some sort of almost-believable smile on his face and a can-do attitude that everyone in a ten-foot radius would probably be able to see through immediately.

So maybe he needed to come up with a slightly better list.

And learn how to breathe through his mouth.

What was it about summer in New York that made everything smell slightly like sewage? It was probably a test. Survival of the fittest or something.

He’d circled right back around to Darwin.

“God damnit,” Killian mumbled, trying to weave his way through a crowd of tourists, all of whom had decided that the middle of Broadway was the perfect place to just stop and take photos.

They didn’t move. Even when he started muttering more curses under his breath and, maybe, didn’t turn his shoulder when the light turned green and the whole lot of them started pushing across the crosswalk and, well, they just deserved to get hit in the side at that point.

Rational. Reasonable. Survival.

Killian Jones was, at one point, at least two of those things and then he turned ten.

And then he wasn’t really any of those things anymore.

And, now, several decades removed from watching that very particular bubble burst right in front of his eyes, Killian Jones was nothing short of angry, frustrated and visibly fed up with just about everything.

Including tourists in downtown Manhattan.

Especially tourists in downtown Manhattan.

“The sign says walk, that means you’ve got to walk,” Killian grumbled, only to be met with the wide-eyed stare of a woman who, very clearly, had never seen a building taller than two stories before in her life.

“What?” she asked. She’d stopped walking. This was not going according to plan. He was going to be late. And maybe get hit by a cab. That would, at least, get him out of this meeting. But then he’d probably drop the coffee in his hand and that was just a waste of four dollars he couldn't really rationalize anymore.

“The sign,” Killian repeated, nodding towards the post on the corner of the block. “See that light-up person on there? It means you can walk. He wants you to walk. Or her. I’m not here to determine gender for a crosswalk sign.”  
  
“Just to be an ass.”  
  
He shrugged. He wasn’t really expecting that from the very-obvious-tourist with her _I Love NY_ plastic bag, but she wasn’t really wrong. “Welcome to New York or something.”  
  
She might have muttered _dick_ under her breath, but she did pick up the pace a little bit and they both managed to get across East 8th without a major traffic incident or possible hit-and-run, so the whole thing seemed like a bit of a victory.

That was, however, until Killian stepped back onto the sidewalk to find himself face to face with an enormous set of doors and a building with far too many windows and the heating bill must have been insane during the winter.

He probably didn’t have to worry about that.

He assumed he wasn’t in charge of the heating or cooling of the building. Just the writing. Maybe. Regina hadn’t been all that specific. And he absolutely hadn’t been listening.

He’d been far too worried about being _pissed off at the entire world_ – her words, not his. She was right. Killian just wouldn’t ever admit to that.

Regina knew anyway. That’s why she’d called in the first place and offered him the job. Offered was generous. She’d demanded his presence in New York a week before, quick to remind him that he _didn’t have anything else to do_ and, as much as it pained Killian to admit, she was right. That’s what he got for telling Robin anything.

Killian sighed, taking another sip – _gulp_ – of coffee and wincing when he burnt the back of his tongue. It was way too hot out to just be standing there, staring at _The Daily Caller_ emblazoned on the two glass doors he still hadn’t managed to open.

God, fucking damnit.

His phone rang in his pocket and Killian might have actually jumped at the sound, taking him by surprise and nearly leading to another dropped coffee incident. He moved the cup into the crook of his elbow, trying to pull his phone out while still keeping the bag on his shoulder from falling on the ground and, somehow, another tourist managed to bump into him.

“What?” he snapped when he finally managed to get his phone out and pressed up against his ear.

“Do you always answer your phone like that? That was incredibly aggressive.”  
  
Killian’s shoulders slumped and he heard the thud of his bag hitting the sidewalk. It was probably covered in garbage now, just by default. He’d blame New York. And Robin was practically cackling on the other end.

“Maybe I just knew it was you,” Killian said. “Trying to make jokes. Badly, for what it’s worth.”  
  
“Not much. I know my jokes suck. What I don’t know though is why you’re camping out in front of the door when you were supposed to be sitting in a chair in front of Regina’s desk five minutes ago.”  
  
“She’d let me sit in a chair? That’s awfully generous of her majesty.”  
  
“Don’t be a dick.”  
  
“You know that’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.”  
  
“And that doesn’t surprise me at all. You should really come inside though, you’re freaking out the receptionist. She wanted security to call the police because she thought you were a really well-dressed loiterer.”  
  
Killian scoffed, but he could feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of his neck and the bottom of his spine and maybe he should have taken the jacket off. Or not worn the jacket at all. Or ignored Regina’s commands completely.

That last one was, absolutely, impossible.

“How come you need security to call the police?” Killian asked, delaying the inevitable meeting and not even doing a very good job of hiding it.

Robin laughed again. “They’re security, Killian. They can’t actually arrest you for whatever lewd activity you were doing to scare our receptionist.”

“Lewd, huh? When’d you swallow a thesaurus?”  
  
“When I married a reporter.”  
  
“That whole being editor thing didn’t help then?”  
  
The laughing stopped. Killian smiled and took another drink of the now luke-warm coffee. “See, I want to call you a dick again, but if I do that, you’re going to make another quip about my vocabulary and its limited uses. So, how about you stop being a complete and utter bastard, actually find some kind of unspoken courage and show up to a meeting we’re only having in order to save your ass?”  
  
“Did you practice that?” Robin groaned and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that _easily_ , probably the last time he’d been in New York and with Robin and Regina and...whatever. That wasn’t important. He’d started breathing through his nose again and he could smell whatever it was that smell was – possibly just the scent of the questionable steam that was actually coming out of the ground at the end of the block, funneled up with city-provided equipment and he’d never understood that.

He’d probably look it up later.

“Dick, ass, bastard, idiot,” Robin listed off, each insult sounding a little less insulting.

“I’m a little hurt by idiot, I’ll be honest.”  
  
“Come inside, Killian.”  
  
The doors in front of him actually buzzed and he had to admit, he was kind of impressed by that. Killian grabbed one of the incredibly ostentatious handles, kicking his foot back to step over the threshold only to be met by a pair of bright green eyes and even brighter hair and an incredulous expression.

“So you actually came in then,” she said slowly, resting her elbows on the top of the desk in front of her.

Killian narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips slightly and nodded. “So it seems. You guys have air conditioning. That won out.”  
  
“Robin said you were late.”

“Five minutes. The subway sucks.”  
  
“They’re calling it ‘summer of hell’ for a reason, I guess. Where’d you get stuck?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
The woman’s expression didn’t change, but she sat up a bit straighter and brushed her hair off her shoulders. “Stuck. On the train. I’m assuming that’s the reason behind the five minutes.”  
  
“Well, it’s more like seven minutes now, but that was really Robin’s fault. And, no, had to transfer. He also said you thought I was loitering.”  
  
She shrugged. “You’ve got a look to you. And it wasn’t just me. Our security guy agreed with me. He’s the one who said I should call Robin.”  
  
“A look,” Killian repeated slowly. Another shrug. He glanced at the desk she was still leaning on, elbows just a few inches away from a nameplate that proclaimed her Ariel Golven. “What exactly constitutes this look?”

“Tall, dark, brooding. You kept staring at that coffee cup like you thought it was going to give you up for murder. Have you murdered anyone recently?”  
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow at her and she grinned in response. “Not that I’m aware of, although I can’t be held responsible for anything I do to tourists in the middle of crosswalks. Why, are you trying to turn me into a murderer?”  
  
“No, I don’t really want to deal with murderers,” Ariel said. “I’m assuming you’re Regina’s eleven o’clock? The one she and Robin keep talking about in hushed tones?”  
  
“Yes to the eleven o’clock, but I refuse to acknowledge tones hushed or otherwise.” He paused, licking his lips and downing the rest of the coffee. Ice cold in ten minutes, flat. “You have a garbage can back there, Ariel? And any idea what was discussed in those hushed tones?”

She laughed. Loudly. Enough to draw the attention of the previously mentioned security guard who, at first glance, appeared to be seventy-two years old and absolutely _should_ call the police before deciding to do anything, if only for the sake of his health and probably several different joints.

“Here,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly and wiggling her fingers when Killian didn’t move immediately. “That’s a yes to the first question,” she continued. “And a vague sense of impressed that you know how to read and an absolutely not to gossiping about the people who sign my paychecks when I know you’re here for some great, big important reason.”  
  
“I don’t know about great and important,” Killian argued.

Belittling and just a bit trivial, maybe. Survival of the fittest, it seemed, meant agreeing to things you absolutely, positively would not do in any other situation – like agreeing to come back to New York and be Regina Mills’ eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning in August.

Ariel clicked her tongue. “Ah, but those hushed tones say otherwise.” The phone on her desk rang, a loud, shrill sound that cut through the lobby and seemed to shake off the glass doors and directly into the very center of Killian’s soul.

Darwin probably hadn’t been that emotional. The turtles wouldn’t have allowed it.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Ariel answered, some unspoken question that could only be Regina if the demanding tone of voice on the other end was any indication. Killian still hadn’t handed over his half-empty coffee cup. “Uh, no I don’t think so.”

Killian widened his eyes and Ariel rolled hers, mouthing _dead_ at him. She wiggled her fingers again, finally just leaning over the top of the desk to grab the empty cup and dump it into the trash can behind her. “Thanks,” he muttered, just a bit stunned by the show of kindness and he was a jaded asshole.

Regina was still talking a mile a minute, what sounded like a very detailed list of demands that were only serving to make Killian even later than he already was.

The elevator at the other end of the lobby dinged and they needed to do something about the acoustics of that building because everything just seemed to sound _louder_ , or maybe those were the nerves he’d resolutely refused to acknowledge in the last two weeks, and Killian didn’t even want to think of all the reasons he knew exactly who was walking towards him as soon as the footsteps fell on the tiled floor.

“Killian, seriously, what the hell?” Robin shouted, striding towards him like he was eighteen again and breaking curfew. “We, literally, just went over this.”  
  
Killian waved his hands through the air, the silent gesture more than enough to warrant the scowl on Robin’s face and maybe he was eighteen again because he’d absolutely done it for the reaction. “You told me to come inside,” he corrected. “I am inside. And I’m also a guest in your delightfully large office building. You want me to break protocol by not signing in or whatever you do with guests?”  
  
“Cretin.”  
  
“Oh, that was a good one.”  
  
Robin sighed, rolling his whole head in frustration, but there was a hint of a smile on the edge of his mouth and Killian knew he’d won. Ariel slammed the receiver back into the mount, mumbling a few words under her breath and she nearly fell out of her chair when she realized who was standing in front of her.

“Oh, Mr. Locksley,” she stammered. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you...I didn’t see you there.”  
  
“It’s fine, Ariel,” Robin promised, elbowing Killian when he couldn’t quite stop himself from laughing. “Killian’s not a guest. He should have a keycard, actually.”  
  
“What?” Killian snapped, turning on his friend and, maybe, mentor and pseudo parent-guardian in some sort of _sign your permission slips_ kind of way. Robin brushed him off. “That wasn’t part of the deal. There was no deal.”  
  
Robin clicked his tongue, tapping a knowing finger against the strap of Killian’s bag. “Exactly. You gave her an in, Killian and now she’s got her tenterhooks locked in. If you tell her I said that I will push you off the roof.”  
  
“I wouldn't dare.  
  
“You would. I fully expect you to say something anyway.” Robin took the card out of Ariel’s hand with a smile on his face and promptly pushed it into Killian’s chest. “Take this. Guard it with your life. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get into the building from now on. Come on.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“You stop understanding English at some point?” Killian shook his head. “Come on. Gina’s pissed you’re late.”

“Right,” Killian muttered, following Robin back towards the elevators as Ariel shouted _welcome aboard_ as soon as the doors clicked shut.

It took some kind of eternity to reach the twentieth floor, Robin’s smug smile making Killian reconsider every single decision he’d ever made that led him to that moment. Regina had the whole floor to herself. Of course she did.

“God, spare no expense, huh?” Killian asked, running a hand through his hair as they walked towards another set of glass doors.

Robin rolled his eyes. “You really have no sense of self worth at all, do you?”  
  
“To be fair, I have no idea what’s actually going on, so I guess I’m just stringing along for the ride at this point.”

Regina Mills looked older than she did when Killian first met her. The band t-shirts that had been some kind of uniform when she was twenty-four and a cub reporter on the entertainment beat were long gone, replaced, instead with a seemingly ever-growing pant suit collection that cost more than Killian’s last apartment in Boston. The curls were gone too and her hair was short, cut straight and business-like, a no-nonsense attitude that seemed to permeate every single inch of the expansive office.

The lights on her desk phone probably never stopped blinking and the pile of paperwork a few feet away from her right elbow probably never got smaller. She looked a bit like her mother.

Killian wouldn’t ever say that out loud.

Robin was absolutely wrong – he had, at least, a little self worth.

“Where have you been?” Regina demanded, not even bothering to get out of her chair. She just glared at Killian.

“And hello to you too, Regina,” Killian answered. “It’s super great to see you. Long time. Or something. How’s everything? How’s Henry and Roland?”

He nodded towards the few frames sitting behind her, decorating the tiny shelf and Killian couldn’t look too long – certain he’d get vertigo from staring out the massive window back towards Broadway. Liam would have made fun of him for that.

Oh.

Oh, well, shit.

He shouldn’t be surprised – jumping back into the deep end of memories and emotions as he was, it only made sense that, eventually, he’d think about Liam. He just wished it wasn’t in front of Regina when he was fifteen minutes late and she was absolutely doing him some kind of enormous favor.

“Can I sit?” he asked. “Or is that against the rules?”  
  
Robin groaned, flopping into one of the chairs in front of Regina’s desk and stretching his legs out. Regina might have smiled. “Yeah, you can sit,” she said. “After you answer my question.”  
  
“You know I think that’s referred to as aggravating your sources.”  
  
“An answer or I’m actually going to get Robin to move that other chair into the hallway and you can stand for the rest of this discussion. Your call, Jones.”

She was definitely smiling and Killian felt some of that ice he’d built up in the very center of him shift just a little bit, the nickname sparking just a hint of feeling. “An ancient callback, your majesty,” he muttered. “And I had to transfer trains. It took fucking forever.”  
  
"Why are you taking the train? Aren’t you staying downtown?”

Killian shook his head, sitting down and nearly sighing in contentment when his knees bent. There’d been no seats on the train – either one. “No, it’s too...downtown.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Regina countered.  
  
“Hip. Is that better?”

“That just makes you sound old,” Robin said. “You could have told us you were staying uptown. We would have sent a car or something. Avoided this whole thing.”

“And not done this get-to-know-you-again banter?” Killian asked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Robin laughed in agreement, but Regina pressed her lips together – a thin line of judgement and red lipstick and understanding that Killian didn’t appreciate at all. “Why are you torturing yourself?” she asked. “He wouldn’t want you to stay up there.”  
  
“Straight to the point then,” Killian muttered and Robin stopped laughing immediately. “It’s not like I’m staying in the apartment. It’s just quieter up there.”  
  
And maybe Killian wanted to torture himself a little bit.

It was easier to do that when he wasn’t living on Astor Place with 24-hour pizza places and several dozen bars and the incoming freshman class at NYU exercising their first few weeks of freedom from adult supervision.

Once upon a time, Killian Jones lived in a tiny shoebox of a Morningside Heights apartment in upper Manhattan with his brother and it was a mess. They barely paid the rent every month and God knew how Liam managed to feed them every day and, at one point, he only owned two pairs of socks.

It had been an unqualified disaster.

It was, easily, the happiest Killian could ever remember being.

But happiness, it seemed, was not something that was ever meant to be consistent. It was fleeting and easy to lose and, eventually, Killian just decided to stop expecting much of anything from anyone.

Which was why he wasn’t quite sure why he was reacting to Boston the way that he was. He wasn’t just mad – he was pissed off. And yelling at tourists about it.

Print was dead. There was no future in it. Or, more importantly, no profit in it. And he had the metaphorical pink slip to prove it.

An email. Years of work and bylines and ignoring everything else to _get the story_ and the best _The Herald_ could do was send him an email informing him that he was part of a round of staff cuts and he needed to have his desk cleared by the end of the week.

He did one better. He cleared out his entire apartment.

“There’s not really any sense in beating around the bush,” Regina said pointedly and _shit_ she sounded like Cora. Killian rolled his eyes. “Liam wouldn’t want you up there. You’re not the ghost in this situation.”  
  
Killian let out a low whistle and even Robin mumbled something that sounded a bit like _jeez, Gina, he was ten minutes late, no need to actually ruin his entire day_. She just lifted her eyebrows and stared at Killian, waiting for him to argue and smiling slightly when he didn’t.

“What do you want me to say, Gina?” Killian asked, certain if he fell back on nicknames and familiarity maybe he wouldn’t be tempted to run out of the office screaming.

“Why you’re being so difficult about all of this?”  
  
_Because my brother’s dead and I’ve avoided New York for the last decade and the one job I thought mattered very easily informed me that I was mistaken, again, and your windows are freaking me out._

It sounded absurd in his head, he could only imagine what it would sound like if he actually said any of those words out loud.

“I’m not being difficult,” he said, ignoring whatever strangled sound Robin made next to him. One of Regina’s eyebrows moved. “I’m not! Why are you so mad about ten minutes?”  
  
“This is a fairly important website, in case you haven’t noticed,” Regina said evenly. “Strangely enough I do have other things to do besides waiting for you to grace us with your presence.”

“This was your idea.”  
  
“And you’re being an ass about it.”  
  
“Robin already used that insult, come up with a different one.”  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
“Nope.”

“Dunce.”  
  
Killian grinned and Regina’s shoulders seemed to settle just a bit, spine not quite as straight and the tension in the office not quite as thick. “Winner winner,” he mumbled, ancient games matching up with ancient nicknames and Liam absolutely wouldn’t want him to stay uptown.

“Did Robin give you the keycard thing?” she asked.

“Super articulate, your majesty. And yes, he did. Before he actually coughs up a lung in a misplaced attempt to argue with both of us.” Robin snapped his jaw shut, glaring at Killian again and kicking at his ankle for good measure. “Although I don’t understand why you’re giving me one of these things if I’m just going to write breaking stuff for you.”  
  
Robin made another noise – it might have actually be a moan and Killian twisted in the chair, a wooden arm colliding with his side. “What am I missing?” he asked.

“See, this is why you should have gotten here on time,” Robin said. “Then we could have gone over all the reasons you shouldn’t freak out without having to rush over them.”  
  
Killian glanced back at Regina, an unreadable look on her face and the phone was probably going to explode at some point if she didn’t acknowledge all of those flashing lights. “Am I not your top priority, Gina?”

“Obviously not,” she responded easily. Robin was going to choke on air. “And you’re not going to do news either.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian’s eyes darted between the two other people in the room, desperate for some kind of contradiction or explanation and all but growling when he wasn’t provided with either.

This whole thing really was Regina’s fault. Not that she’d ever admit to it.

He was eighteen and a freshman in college, working two jobs before and after class and it had been a Saturday afternoon when a twenty-something woman with black hair and bright red nails strode into the coffee shop just off campus and ordered a large Americano with whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso.

She’d been on her phone and there’d been a pen stuck in her hair and a notebook gripped tightly in one hand.  

He thought she was crazy. Whipped cream on an Americano was disgusting. Years later, Killian asked Regina about it and she claimed it was for the sugar, but he got the distinct impression it was some kind of rebellious act because Cora refused to admit that anything good in the world, like whipped cream, existed.

Regina could have done things easier – she could have lived up to her mother’s plans and demands and expectations and she probably could have gotten an above-the-fold story in _The Times_ before she was thirty without having to do much more than mention her last name.

She didn’t want that.

She wanted to earn it. Or so she explained to Killian after she started showing up in the coffee shop  several times a day, saying that she’d moved uptown on her own and graduated with a masters in journalism and was covering music because she _loved_ it.

He never forgot the way her eyes lit up when she started talking about it – the emotions and the feeling and the _want_ and when she told him to come along to see her boyfriend play in Alphabet City that weekend, Killian wasn’t sure he’d seen anyone love anything as much as Regina loved her beat, literal and metaphorical.

He declared the week after, marching into the Dean's office at Hunter with a sense of determination that made Liam ask _what he’d done with Killian Jones_ and it only took a few minutes to lock into some sort of future.

And Killian Jones, reporter was born.

“Explain, Gina,” Killian said sharply, doing his best to get the _Mills demand_ into his voice. It didn’t work. “I don’t know how to do anything except news.”  
  
She didn’t look impressed. “Ok, that’s not true at all. You have a degree. I know you took a features writing course once. I fixed your grammar.”  
  
“If we’re just here to walk down memory lane…”  
  
“Obviously we’re not or I wouldn’t be so pissed off about you being late and screwing up my entire schedule for the day.”  
  
“Guys,” Robin cut in, actually standing up to move in between them and Killian didn’t remember shifting to the front of the chair until he was nearly falling off it. “There’s no space in news,” he said, staring intently at Killian. “We don’t have the byline.”  
  
“You’re a website,” Killian accused. “An enormous website mostly made up of freelancers. I’m not asking for a staffer job.”  
  
“Too bad,” Regina mumbled and Robin shot her a look over his shoulder.

Killian took a deep breath, sliding back until his shoulders collided with the top of the chair. He pressed his tongue against his cheek and stared back at Robin. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’m listening.”  
  
Robin tilted his head slightly – an exasperated move Killian was fairly certain Liam taught him – and balanced on the edge of Regina’s desk. “I’m not even going to acknowledge that with an insult,” he mumbled. “And I don’t care about your reservations as a staffer. That’s why we got you the keycard. You already are one.”

Killian opened his mouth to argue, but Robin just widened his eyes and he’d gotten very good at _that_ look. It probably had something to do with raising two kids. And Liam. Liam definitely taught him that. “This is not up for debate,” Robin continued. “You, Killian Jones, are now an official staff writer at _The Daily Caller_ and, now, an official employee of Mills Media. There’s a shit ton of paperwork for you to fill out later, but we’ll get to that.  
  
You’ll be full-time, you’ll get benefits, you should move out of that hotel you’ve been staying in for the last two days. And while we can’t tell you not to live uptown, we can both strongly suggest that you consider moving down here to make the commute easier. And,” he said, eyeing Killian with a look that left little room for argument, “you should forget whatever misgivings you have about a beat that does not revolve intrinsically around death.”  
  
“Ok, breaking news isn’t just death,” Killian reasoned. Regina made a dismissive noise. “It’s not! It just ends up that way a lot because people are awful.”  
  
“And this kind of involves death,” Regina muttered.

Robin almost looked defeated. “Virtually.”  
  
“What the hell are either one of you talking about?” Killian asked, half shouting the question in the hope that, maybe, it would get him some answers.

“Video games,” Robin said. “A whole string of feature stories about video games. Or, well, one video game. And one team of...video game players. Is that what they’re called?”  
  
Regina shrugged. “I have no idea. Ask Killian in a week. He should know by then.”

Killian’s head was spinning – and he was fairly certain it wasn’t because of the vertigo he may or may not have been experiencing. He was breathing through his mouth again. And that time wasn’t on purpose.

He pushed out of the chair, walking back behind Regina’s desk and ignoring Robin’s quiet gasp of surprise that he even dared to move over whatever unspoken barrier he’d just crossed. Regina’s eyebrow shifted again. “What the hell is going on, Gina?” he barked. “The truth this time.”

And just like that, the facade cracked a bit – eyebrows returning to their biologically determined place and glare softening just a bit and for half a second Killian was almost convinced she was going to move her fingers to try and brush towards his left hand before she stopped herself.

“You called Robin,” Regina started. “And told him about _The Herald_ and, well, you couldn’t expect that we wouldn’t do something. We had to do something. He would have wanted…”

“Stop it,” Killian warned, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Regina Mills wasn’t concerned with empty threats. Or ghosts.

She moved again and, that time, she did reach forward, wrapping her fingers around his left forearm and tugging forcefully like she was trying to get him to understand.

“We had to do something,” she repeated. “And it’s not like we’re not without money here. The problem is that the money isn’t in news. We’ve got that covered. There is, however, a staffer spot open in lifestyles.”  
  
“Lifestyles!”  
  
“Killian, if you interrupt me again, I’m going to cut your keycard in half.”  
  
“That doesn’t really mean much to me. And I can’t be official yet, I haven’t filled out a W-4. Nothing’s official until there are taxes involved.”  
  
“You’re very frustrating when you’re sarcastic.”  
  
“Charming.”  
  
“And it’s a defense mechanism,” Robin mumbled.

Killian shrugged. “That too,” he admitted. “Why lifestyles? Honestly. I’m not really qualified to write fluff.”  
  
“You’re qualified to write,” Regina said. “And I resent the implication that anything we publish is fluff.”  
  
“Is that you or your mom talking? And there’s a story in your lifestyles section today questioning the merits of merlot over other wines.”  
  
Regina’s eyes flashed, the mention of Cora having its desired effect and he’d absolutely done it as some kind of glorified defense. If he got her mad he wouldn’t have to talk and he could ignore the idea of what he’d wanted when he got into all of this.

Jaded.

He was jaded and angry and news was all of those with some homicides occasionally thrown in.

“I think what you’re trying to say is that you’re reading the lifestyles section of the site,” Regina said, bypassing any mention of her mother. “Did you click on the story? That’d help with hits.”  
  
“I did not,” Killian laughed. “Just skimmed headlines.”  
  
“You’re the worst kind of reader.”  
  
“Make me pay for content then.”  
  
“Don’t say that out loud, that’s like muttering _Bloody Mary_ in the mirror three times. Any mention of the money automatically summons my mother.”

Killian barked out a laugh, leaning against the windows behind him and crossing his arms. Regina smiled. “Ok, Gina, I’ll bite. What am I supposed to be doing here?”  
  
“Lifestyles,” she answered, waving a dismissive hand through the air when he rolled his eyes at the repetition. “But not really lifestyles. It’s only going there because it doesn’t really make sense in entertainment and it’s not really sports, although they’ll probably argue with you on that front.”  
  
“It is called e-sports,” Robin said, twisting to join the conversation again. “It’s, technically, a sport. A tournament if you want to be specific.”  
  
“I thought you said video games,” Killian said. It sounded exactly like the accusation it was. He wanted the truth. And maybe another coffee.

“I did. What I didn’t say because you were too busy throwing a temper tantrum over what section your story would fall under was that the video games are insanely competitive and insanely popular which is why there’s even an interest in stories about them.”  
  
“There was no temper tantrum. There was...confusion.”  
  
“Temper. Tantrum,” Robin grinned. “It doesn’t matter. I knew you’d take it anyway.”  
  
“Because of the aforementioned health benefits?”  
  
“No. Because it’s going to be a good story and that’s all you’ve ever really wanted to do.”

Killian licked his lips, tilting his head back until he hit it against a pane of glass and that was good, if it hurt it meant he was actually there, in that office, with the only two people in the entire world who would dare say anything like that to him. It would have been kind of weird if that whole morning had been a dream.

“And trust me,” Robin pressed. “This is a good story. Plus, apparently Henry and Roland are thrilled at the idea of you covering it because they play this game and think you can get them insider info on how to level-up or something.”  
  
“And you said I was the old man before,” Killian muttered. “You already told Henry and Roland I was going to do this? That feels like coercion.”  
  
“A calculated bargaining technique.”  
  
“Ok, so what exactly does this entail? Didn’t you say it was a whole bunch of stories?”  
  
Robin nodded. “A year. With benefits. And the potential for job growth. Outside of lifestyles. So, you know, consider all of that. Plus, Rol and Henry are super excited.”

“Why?”  
  
“Why are Roland and Henry excited? It’s a super popular game.”  
  
“No, no, no,” Killian said. “Why are you guys doing this?”  
  
Robin and Regina stared at him like he’d suddenly grown sixteen heads and suggested that the Earth was flat. Or like they’d offered him a year-long gig covering an e-sports _whatever_ he’d never heard of – with benefits – and probably ignored Cora’s objections to even the idea of him setting foot in that downtown office.

And the answer was so obvious it was like it had grown legs and then proceeded to smack each of them in the face.

 _Because Liam would have wanted us to_.

“How come you wore a jacket to a not-real-interview that you didn’t even want to come to?” Regina countered. Killian glared at her.

 _Because Liam would have wanted me to_.

“Fine,” he said, tugging on his hair again. “I’ll probably have to ask Rol and Henry how the game works.”

“They’re banking on that,” Robin smiled. “And you’re sure? I mean, contrary to popular belief we’re not actually forcing you to take a byline. Or benefits.”  
  
“You’re really pushing that benefits thing aren’t you?”  
  
“It’s a good plan.”  
  
“Sure it is,” Killian scoffed. “And, yeah, I’m sure. You already gave me the keycard anyway, seems a waste to have to cut that up or whatever you do to returned keycards.”  
  
“Probably cut it up.”  
  
“Then, yeah. I’m in. Let’s cover video games like that’s something people do.”

He spent the rest of the day signing paperwork and learning systems and actually reading that merlot story and by the time Killian made it back uptown to the overpriced hotel he was paying for, he all but collapsed on the over-starched sheets.

And he was fairly positive he’d only just shut his eyes when he heard the phone ring, jerking him out of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. Killian reached out blindly, refusing to give credence to the sunlight filtering through the curtains, and he nearly knocked the phone off the nightstand, mumbling a scratchy _hello_ into the receiver.

“Mr. Jones?” a perky voice on the other end asked, as if expecting to find another person in the room registered to Killian Jones.

“Yeah.”  
  
That gave the perky voice pause. “Uh,” she stuttered and there was laughter in the background. Killian resisted the urge to groan. Loudly. “There’s a gentleman down here. Says he knows you and you’re expecting him.”

He hadn’t actually opened his eyes yet, but Killian squeezed them tighter anyway and the perky voice might have gasped when he did actually groan at her. He should have figured. If Robin and Regina were plotting, then it only made sense that Will Scarlet was in on it too.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Killian mumbled, finally opening his eyes and immediately regretting that decision. “You can send him up or whatever.”  
  
“He, uh, well he says to tell you he would have come up anyway, but he was…”  
  
“Doing me a solid,” Killian finished. “Yeah, I bet he was. Thanks.”  
  
“Of course.” They were back to perky. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Jones?”

Scarlet was hysterical and Killian would have bet several thousand dollars he absolutely did not have that he was also resting on the lobby desk and possibly clutching his stomach in some kind of dramatic motion that he came up with when he was nineteen.

“No,” Killian said. “Thanks.”  
  
“Have a great day!”  
  
Not likely. He’d signed all that paperwork and agreed to dinner with Robin and Regina which also meant dinner with Henry and Roland and that meant several hours in some sort of whirlwind video game crash course discussing the rules of some game called Over...something. He should probably remember the name of the game.

And he’d fallen asleep quickly and easily, but only because he was told, in no uncertain terms by Regina, that he had a ten o’clock appointment in Midtown with this video game team that he _absolutely, could not miss_.

She must have sent Scarlet to make sure he didn’t.

Or...no, it couldn’t have been that. Even Regina wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t trying to drive him insane.

Probably.

Oh, shit that’s totally what was happening.

Will must have sprinted up the stairs or taken the quickest elevator in the history of the world, already knocking on Killian’s door. He groaned, resigning himself to whatever plan for his life was, apparently, being formed without his explicit consent, and managed to grab a shirt off the top of his bag before swinging open the door. Will was mid-knock.

“Hey, Hook,” Will said, a picture of sarcastic _chipper_ nonsense that made Killian clench his fist. “Welcome home.”  
  
“You’re an ass,” Killian muttered. Will laughed again, pushing his way into the room with, at least, four different cameras slung over both of his shoulders. So, that was definitely happening.

Will sank onto the corner of the bed, a knowing smile on his face as if he’d just feasted on an entire table of canaries. “Dynamic duo or something,” he said. “I hate that, so don’t use that again.”  
  
“I’m only going to use that now,” Killian said, slamming the door behind him.

“Pot and kettle.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You called me an ass, which is a great reintroduction after ignoring the city for the last ten years, by the way. So, pot and kettle.”  
  
“That’s not how that cliché goes,” Killian pointed out. Will shrugged. “And I saw you at Christmas.”

In retrospect, that was probably when Robin and Regina first started plotting this whole thing – he’d shown up to the Mills family estate in Vermont just a few hours before midnight on Christmas Eve, exhausted with bags under his eyes that were big enough to check, and complained about fewer bylines and a lack of ink and a lack of ads which all circled back to the fewer bylines thing. No one wanted to print the paper if no one wanted to buy the paper.

Will had tried to get him to take some photos, certain if he’d _just expand his skill set_ he’d be more appealing to a wider variety of publishers and printing syndicates.

Killian had not-so-politely refused. And then called Will an ass.

“That doesn’t count,” Will argued. “You were in and out in, like, a day and a half. You’re in this for the long haul now, right?”  
  
“Because I’m being plied with an admittedly pretty good benefits plan.”

“C’mon. Don’t be like that. This is going to be fun. You’re telling me you’re not actually interested in professional video game players?”  
  
“Only in so much as finding out how they actually make a living.”  
  
Will made a face. “You wound me, Hook. This is a cool story. It’s totally in your wheelhouse of interests. Or, you know, it should be.”  
  
“Don’t do that,” Killian growled.

Will didn’t back down. And he shouldn’t have been surprised. Regina wasn’t going to put up with any of Killian’s shit, but Scarlet was a close second in being decidedly unamused by any of this. It probably had something to do with living together – answering a CraigsList ad because Hunter didn’t provide housing and Liam had already been sent overseas and Killian wanted out of the shoebox.

The apartment he and Will lived in wasn’t much better, didn’t even have an oven in it, but they were eighteen and it felt like some kind of palace at the time.

It also left Will positive he knew Killian better than anyone.

“Regina thinks you’re up here because you’re wallowing,” Will said, shifting so his half a dozen cameras were resting on the bed as well.

“Regina needs to stop gossipping.”  
  
“It’s the journalist in her, she can’t help herself. At least you’re not living in the Mills-Locksley household. Imagine all that talking.”  
  
“Terrifying.”  
  
Will grinned, shoulders shaking slightly with the force of his laughter. “All that support and mutual adult’dom,” he chuckled. “The worst. Plus those kids adding the adorable. It’s just disgusting.”

“No one needs that,” Killian sighed, running a hand over his face and he’d slept for what felt like days, but he was, suddenly, exhausted. “So, dynamic duo’ing, huh? She give you a choice of gigs or you volunteer to follow me around for a year?”  
  
“Please, I’m not following you around. I’m following a good story. Although watching you rejoin the human race is some kind of unexpected bonus.”  
  
“Did I evolve into another species without realizing it?”  
  
Will nodded. “Killian Jones, suddenly very good at coming up with adjectives for blood.”  
  
“Lacerations.”  
  
“See.”  
  
“How come you brought all that gear?” Killian asked. “I thought we were just going to meet with these people. Background or whatever.”  
  
“Yeah, but you never know when the mood’s going to strike and we’re going in the middle of a practice. It could be pretty good stuff, actually.”  
  
“Practice?”  
  
“What part of professional athletes are you not understanding here?”  
  
“See,” he shook his head. “That’s just not right. It’s not like they’re burning calories or anything. This is...this is not a real thing.”  
  
“I would suggest you don’t tell them that. And then do some basic research in the cab. Because they may not be running sprints, but they’re making money like they’re professional athletes. You know what the base salary for this league is?”

“It’s a league?”  
  
“Tournament’s probably a better word, but that’s also a question you should ask the athletes. Killian, did you even listen to a single thing Regina told you?”  
  
He hadn’t. He’d listened to what Roland and Henry said about the rules and the character sayings that were, admittedly, just a bit annoying when he heard them several dozen times in the span of a few hours at dinner, but he hadn’t really paid attention to the _angle_ , fairly positive he could, at least, come up with his own _in_ on a story.

“Idiot,” Will muttered, but there was a familiarity in his voice that sent a very specific pang of _something_ down Killian’s spine. “Go shower, you look like shit and you don’t want to offend the sources as soon as they lay eyes on you.”  
  
Killian kicked him, blaming old habits or something that didn’t make him feel like he was a teenager. “They’re professional video game players,” he reasoned. “I highly doubt they’ll be offended by much of anything.”  
  
“You got to check those assumptions at the door, man.”  
  
“What do you know that I don’t?”  
  
“Trust me, it’ll be more fun if you just go in ignorant.”  
  
“For you maybe,” Killian accused, pushing away from the set of drawers he’d been leaning against. Will hummed in agreement. “Hey, what’s the salary? You said there was a base.”  
  
Will grinned like he’d suddenly found another canary he hadn’t stuffed in his face already. “Fifty thousand,” he answered simply. Killian felt his jaw drop slightly and he wished he was still leaning on something. “Yup,” Will said, popping his lips on the syllable. “Seriously, go shower. I wasn’t kidding about you looking like shit.”

Killian wasn’t sure what he expected when he heard _professional video game practices_ , but he was fairly positive a Midtown Irish bar was fairly low on his list of ideas. He glanced skeptically at Will who hadn’t stopped grinning the entire time they made it downtown, even laughing once when Killian started grumbling about tourists in midtown.

“You’re an old man,” Will chuckled, pushing on Killian’s shoulder to move him towards the door of the bar. There were voices coming from inside – screams might have been more appropriate.

Killian swung open the door, closing his eyes when a blast of air conditioning rushed towards them and the screams were actually shouts of something that sounded a bit like triumph.

_No one can hide from my sight!_

Will was barely staying upright, arm wrapped tightly around his waist when he noticed the look on Killian’s face. He shook his head, not sure what to focus on – every screen sitting on the bar was hooked up to the game, six stools pressed up against the far wall with half a dozen women sitting there, each one wearing headsets and feet propped up on even more stools.

Their fingers were moving a mile a minute on actual keyboards and one of them – a brunette with bright, red streaks in her hair – was yelling at the woman three seats to her right, leaning forward to bark orders. “Don’t move,” she shouted and the other woman, another brunette, rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Belle. Do not move!”  
  
“I know how the game works!”  
  
“Oh my God, Rubes, shut up,” someone else screamed, kicking at air and Killian hoped she wasn’t aiming for the woman next to her. She didn’t really come close. “Belle knows how to play. We all know how to play.”

Rubes – that couldn't be her name – stuck her tongue out, but she didn’t pull her eyes away from the screen and something must have happened because there was more yelling and more orders shouted and a string of sound effects that came pouring out of the five TV screens above the bar.

“What is happening right now?” Killian whispered, leaning back towards a still-amused Will who already had one of his cameras pointed at the line of women in front of them.

“See, I told you it’d be more fun if you came into this ignorant. You’re going to want to come up with something good if you don’t want me to give Regina this picture of you reacting to that one blonde lady screaming.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Phone camera. On silent. Deceptive.”

“No, I don’t care about that. What blonde one?”  
  
“The one you’re staring at. Still.”  
  
Killian blinked – he had been. He hadn’t even turned towards Will when he asked his initial question, not quite willing to pull his gaze away from the woman a few feet in front of him. There were spots of red on her cheek and a piece of hair flying across her face, moving every time she jerked her forehead and mumbled a string of curses under her breath and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

That wasn’t part of the deal at all.

This wasn’t what he expected at all.

“They were supposed to be professional video game players,” Killian hissed, finally pulling his eyes away and glaring at Will like this was, somehow, his fault.

“They are,” he said slowly. And then he took another picture. “I’ll call this one, lovestruck Killian Jones. It’ll probably win awards.”  
  
“Shut up. Why are they…”  
  
“Women?”  
  
“Shut up,” Killian repeated. “But, well, yeah.”  
  
Will stuffed his phone back in his pocket and Killian was glad – until Scarlet used his now-free fist to punch him in the shoulder. “You know they still have opposable thumbs, right? I don’t think gender dictates an innate ability to play video games. And you seem suddenly very interested in your subject matter. Don’t say shut up again, I’m enjoying this way too much.”

“Shoot, shoot, shoot, Emma, God, shoot,” the red-streaked brunette yelled, elbowing the woman next to her and drawing back Killian’s attention.

Her name was Emma.

“Ruby, I know how to play the game,” Emma groaned, smashing a string of buttons. _Bomb’s away!_ “Ha,” she shouted in triumph, punching the air as soon as the shot hit and, according to the sound effects, exploded. “Take that fucking assholes!”

Will laughed, not quite able to turn the sound into a cough or the silence it probably should have been since they’d been lurking in the doorway for the last five minutes. Emma spun at the noise, gaze sharp and shoulders straight and Killian couldn't see anything except how _green_ her eyes were and how blonde her hair was, curling lightly at the ends that were draped over the front of an NYPD t-shirt.

“Can I help you?” she asked. “The restaurant doesn’t open for another couple of hours.”  
  
“No, no, we’re not here for the restaurant,” Killian said quickly, elbowing Will when he didn’t stop laughing immediately. “I’m Killian Jones and this is Will Scarlet. We’re here from _The Boston..._ sorry, _The Daily Caller_. For the story?”  
  
Emma twisted her eyebrows. “Was that a question?”  
  
“Only in the realm of politeness. You know, ease our way into the conversation.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Did you not know about the story?”  
  
“I knew about the story,” Emma said, just a bit sharper than her original greeting had been. This was not going well. Killian ran his hand through his hair. “Did you say Boston?”  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Force of habit.”  
  
“The city of Boston is forcing you to mention it? Are they sponsoring you?”  
  
“That was funny. You know you haven’t actually told me your name yet.”  
  
“Ruby shouted it two seconds ago.”  
  
“First names are only half the story, love,” Killian said and he was an asshole because he was smirking at her and his hand was still stuck halfway through his hair and Emma was staring at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was actually standing there. Neither could he, really.

“Absolutely not your love,” she said, practically snarling out the words. “And my last name is Swan. I’m assuming you need that for the story.”  
  
“It does help with quotes when you can identify who’s talking.”  
  
“You didn’t give me an answer about Boston.”  
  
“Are you always so demanding?” Killian asked. “I feel like I’m the one being interviewed.”

The peanut gallery behind them snickered slightly, headsets pulled to one side so they could hear and Ruby had moved in front of the other brunette she’d been shouting at before. There were three other women – a petite blonde whose feet barely reached the bottom rung of the stool she was sitting on, another blonde with hair that was so light it was nearly white and an auburn-haired woman whose face looked a bit similar to the white-haired blonde and this was all very confusing.

Emma’s eyes were very green.

“When it’s my team, yeah,” Emma said, crossing her arms over her shirt and rocking towards him. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. That was, decidedly, dangerous thinking. “Why the Boston sponsorship?”  
  
“I used to work for a paper in Boston,” Killian answered. “I only recently started at _The Daily Caller_.”  
  
“How recent is recent?”  
  
“More demands, Swan.”  
  
She pressed her lips together tightly, rocking back on her heels and Killian regretted that far more than he should have. “You’ve got a nickname thing,” she accused. “That’s weird.”  
  
“You’re a professional video game player.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And in the realm of weird…”  
  
“You know this is a pretty shitty first impression.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Killian admitted. “Backtrack?” Emma shrugged. “Ok,” he said, pushing his right hand towards her and that was the first time her eyes had dropped away from his. And landed, quite quickly, on his distinct lack of a left hand. Will made some kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat and the unnamed auburn-haired lady might have gasped.

Killian tried to smile, fairly certain it didn’t work as soon as he saw the look on Emma’s face. “Killian Jones,” he said, twisting his wrist slightly and he didn’t think he imagined the _idea_ of a smile flash across her lips. “Lifestyles writer at _The Daily Caller_ , here to profile your pro video game team for the foreseeable future. I think we can tell some really good stories.”

Emma’s eyebrows shifted, darting up her forehead as she glanced over her shoulder towards her teammates. They all smiled. Ruby nodded towards Killian’s outstretched hand, grimacing in what looked like pain, but might have been some kind of unspoken code.

“I thought we were backtracking, Swan,” Killian continued.

She scoffed, turning back on him and she was all green eyes and the headset was threatening to fall off her head, but she met his gaze straight on and he wanted to know everything about her. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted to do that with someone who wasn’t covered in several different adjectives for blood.

He probably shouldn’t say that out loud.

“See, that nickname again,” she muttered, but she was smiling. Honest to goodness smiling. And her fingers were freezing cold when they brushed across his. “Emma Swan, team captain. And we better tell some goddamn great stories.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the thing! It's here! After actual, literal months of sitting in my Google Docs AngstFest2k17 is finally getting to see the light of internet day. I am both excited and slightly nervous about this because it is wayyyyy different than anything else I've ever written and I asked my husband several thousand video game questions. 
> 
> Updates coming on Tuesday and Friday for the foreseeable future. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

Ctrl. Space. V. V. V.

V to goddamn infinity.

That wouldn’t work. That’s not how the game worked. Eventually her character would have to do something except _quick attack_ and Ruby would yell at her if Emma just kept punching air in some kind of misplaced effort to work out whatever emotions were coursing through every single inch of her body.

She was going to kill all of them.

_V. V. V. V. V._

God, was she still holding a keyboard? Oh God, she was. She was holding a keyboard and some asshole reporter and his photographer friend, who couldn’t seem to stop laughing, were still staring expectantly at her like they just thought she’d start spilling her metaphorical guts.

On record.

Oh, shit, she’d have to talk on record.

That was part of the deal. Or that was the way Mary Margaret had explained it the week before when she’d cautiously approached Emma about being featured on _The Daily Caller_ for a goddamn, fucking full year.

Emma was going to strangle Mary Margaret. She couldn’t do that. She’d have nowhere to stay if she did that. Ah, well, David wouldn’t make her move out. Although if Emma murdered her sister-in-law, she was fairly positive her brother would be a little bit put-out.

The reporter was still staring at her.

She was still holding a keyboard. And wearing a headset.

God.

“You alright, love?” he asked and Emma’s neck actually cracked when she snapped her head up. He didn’t seem worried by the look on her face. She assumed there was a look on her face.

She also didn’t answer immediately, just shifted her weight on her heels and heard a pair of footsteps behind her and Emma didn’t even have to look up to know that she was being flanked. Ruby had some kind of wolf-life sixth sense that seemed fine-tuned to react whenever Emma was feeling a very particular type of emotion.

Emma was half convinced it was because of Mary Margaret and some sort of friendship deal with the Devil that was a bit more jaded than it probably should have been, but Emma was also kind of jaded and she hadn’t ever really allowed herself to believe in friendship until she met the once-named Mary Margaret Blanchard.

She couldn’t kill Mary Margaret – Blanchard or Nolan – even in some kind of video game dream-world.

“Swan,” Killian prompted, widening his eyes slightly and _shit_ his eyes were blue. That was distracting. It shouldn't be. “Still with me?”

“She’s killing you in her head,” Ruby supplied and that got him to react. His eyebrows shot up his forehead and the photographer was laughing again, cameras hitting up against his thighs as his whole body seemed to convulse with sound.

“I’m sorry, what is she doing?”  
  
“Killing you.”   
  
“Right.”   
  
“It’s all virtual,” Ruby shrugged. “You’ll get used to it if you stick around. You are planning on sticking around, aren’t you?”   
  
Killian smirked, tongue pressed into the corner of his lip and he nodded slowly. “That’s the beat, or so they told me yesterday. Why is she killing me, exactly?”   
  
“Oh that’s just a way to work out her frustration without actually breaking anything. And Granny will actually kill her if she breaks anything in this restaurant.”   
  
“You’re a very violent group.”   
  
“Those video games, doing us in from the very beginning.”   
  
He barked out a laugh, running a hand through his hair and the smirk was almost something that looked nearly genuine. Emma’s breath hitched in her throat, mouth going dry and she knew she was staring again.

A hand.

One hand.

He had one hand.

Oh, shit.

Killian blinked, gaze tracing across her face, like he was searching for something and just a bit disappointed when he couldn’t find it. The photographer had stopped laughing. And might have moved a bit closer to Killian’s side. That was unexpected.

“You know,” Killian whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Ruby with a specific type of look on his face. “This seems like a very involved murder. Any chance you might be able to explain to me what’s going on?”

Ruby scoffed, rolling her eyes and if Emma wasn’t still so frustrated she probably would have laughed. As it was, she felt something she wasn’t quite certain she appreciated shoot down her spine, vision turning red around the edges. She stepped in between Ruby and Killian, pushing her palm flat against his chest.

That was a mistake.

He was warm and questionably solid and staring right at her like there was an actual electric current rushing up her forearm and straight in between his ribs.   
  
“And she’s still standing right here,” Emma hissed, cringing internally when she actually started to refer to herself in the third person. “Crazy as it may seem, plotting your murder does not mean I’ve lost my ability to hear.”   
  
“That is crazy,” Killian grinned. Emma dropped her hand, resting the keyboard she was still inexplicably holding on her hip and swiping her tongue over the front of her teeth. She huffed slightly, trying to refocus the questionable amount of emotion she was feeling into something she could control.

Focus on the mission. No side quests. No solo journeys. Team first.

Control.

If there was one thing Emma Swan absolutely loved – and maybe needed just a bit more than she was entirely willing to admit with a reporter standing right in front of her – it was control. It was why she thrived in front of a computer screen.

She could control that world. Every single move she made, no matter what piece of garbage game she was playing, was a controlled decision, a set of hits and keys that made absolute sense given the circumstance she was in.

If she died, there was no one to blame but herself. It helped, of course, that she came back to life and got to try again until she perfected her attack and took out whatever asshole she was playing against, but that was neither here nor there.

She wasn’t obsessed with winning.

She wasn’t.

She liked winning.

She was due to win something.

And that was incredibly melodramatic – particularly when she was only winning on some virtual level without a single degree to her name or her own place in New York yet.

One thing at a time.

“Why are you here?” Emma asked and that was good, direct, straight to the point. In absolute control of the situation. “And why is your photographer flanking you?”  
  
“What?” Killian stammered, genuine confusion coloring the few letters. Emma nodded towards the short-haired man behind him.

“Flanking you,” she repeated. “You know, covering your back, checking your six. That second one didn’t really make much sense actually. He keeps moving though, like he’s worried you’re secretly under attack in the middle of this restaurant. And as a follow-up, did you guys buy your jackets together or is it just happenstance that you both wear leather in August?”  
  
“It’s a look,” Scarlet mumbled, shifting the cameras on either shoulder and Emma hummed in agreement.

“Of course. How come you’re so defensive?”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“You brought an entire photo studio’s worth of equipment to a practice. We were told that this was just supposed to be some kind of meet and greet with the writer. I didn’t even know photographers were showing up.”   
  
“Will,” he said and Emma shrugged. “Name is Will. Scarlet. And I’m only here to make sure that your writer showed up to the meet and greet. He’d never leave his hotel room otherwise.”

Emma tilted her head, appreciating the slight blush that appeared on Killian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears and maybe she was in more control than she realized.

And then Killian Jones smirked at her.

Again.

Left shift. E. Q. R. Bang both sides of the mouse until the stupid thing cracked in half.

“You’re living out of a hotel room?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice from sounding nearly as interested as she was. Interested was generous. Intrigued. Definitely intrigued. Curious. Just generically curious.

It didn’t mean anything.

She’d probably have to tell Ruby that twenty-two times. And then tell Mary Margaret another forty-four times, doubling up for every time Ruby told her.

“How do you know Gina?” Killian countered sharply. Emma’s eyes widened, gaze darting back towards Ruby and they’d drawn a crowd. Granny was bound to show up at any moment, banging glasses just to prove how much she wasn’t eavesdropping. “Regina,” he corrected quickly. “How do you know Regina?”  
  
“How do you?”   
  
Killian sighed. “Is this a bar?”

“What?”  
  
“A bar. Preferably one that has alcohol in it.”   
  
“It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”   
  
Killian shrugged, but Will rested a hand on his shoulder and Emma got the distinct impression she was missing something. “Deep breaths, Hook,” Will muttered. Killian rolled his shoulder, frustration lingering in the air around him.

Emma tried not to blink.

A crash sounded behind the counter and she spun on the spot, nearly slamming into Ruby in the process. “Anna, what the hell?” Ruby sighed, wrapping an arm around Emma’s waist and trying to support her weight. It didn’t really work.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Anna sputtered, voice coming from where she was crouched on the floor, trying to pick up pieces of broken glass with her bare hands. This was a disaster – a distinct lack of control and an even bigger distraction.

They had to practice.

That was the point of commandeering Granny’s restaurant before she opened for lunch and Emma tried not to dissolve into frustration immediately.

“We just thought we’d make tea or coffee or something,” Belle explained, a gentle, encouraging smile on her face and Emma could feel some of the tension fall off Ruby. Jeez. They should have made a rule about that. No intra-team dating. Or flirting. Emma wasn’t sure if they’d made it to dating yet. She’d have to ask Mary Margaret about that later.

“Or maybe something a little stronger,” Elsa added, glancing at Killian over Emma’s shoulder. She twisted her neck, wincing slightly when it cracked again and she wished her eyes would stop just widening of their own accord because they were starting to get dry and the last thing she needed to do was to try and push her way into a Times Square drugstore to buy overpriced eye drops.

Mary Margaret probably had them in the apartment anyway.

Emma should stop depending on Mary Margaret for everything.

“My sister-in-law,” she said quickly and Killian’s gaze snapped back to her immediately. She nearly ran into Ruby again, stumbling over her own feet in an effort to take, at least, three steps back from the force of his stare and whatever it was his face was doing – something not quite serious, but not quite joking and in between didn’t make total sense either.

He looked interested.

Honest to goodness interested.

“You’ve lost me, love,” Killian laughed. He took a step back towards her and Emma had run out of places to go.

“I know Regina through my sister-in-law,” Emma explained. “Mary Margaret’s a teacher. Regina’s son was in her class last year and he’s in her summer program. I’ve never actually met her though. Regina, not my sister-in-law.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly, chewing on the side of her tongue. She wished he would blink. And that he hadn’t worn a leather jacket in August. “So, uh,” she continued, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jeans in some kind of desperate attempt to control her limbs. “You know the great, big media mogul that is Regina Mills?”   
  
Killian and Will laughed at that – a loud, easy sound that didn’t seem to match up with how this first impression, backtrack or otherwise, was going. “I’m going to tell her you called her that if only because the obvious sarcasm in your voice might actually bring her down a few pegs,” Killian chuckled.

She was definitely missing something. Several somethings. She’d like to play another game.

“And you know about those?” Emma asked, digging herself even deeper into a conversation she was barely treading water in. “Her pegs. Or whatever.”  
  
“Definitely whatever.”

He flashed her a smile – an actual _smile_ and Emma swore she could feel it in her toes, opening her mouth to say something equally witty and entertaining and, maybe, on the record so the people who actually clicked on headlines on _The Daily Caller_ would realize how goddamn fantastic she was, but she didn’t even get a word out before a shrill and vaguely scandalized voice started yelling at all of them. “What the hell do any of you think you’re doing?”

“Anna’s fault,” the whole team yelled and it wasn’t exactly the lie it usually was. Anna groaned from her spot on the floor.

“It is not,” she whined. “I dropped a glass. Or, you know, a couple glasses fell when I knocked them over because I was trying to make this whole situation less awkward and now everyone is making fun of me and I think I cut my hand.”  
  
Granny rolled her eyes, pushing her way back behind the bar and actually muttering _shoo_ under her breath as she grabbed a first aid kit from underneath the counter. “Anna Magisno,” she said slowly, snapping open the container and grabbing a roll of gauze. “We have rules in this restaurant. What is the number one rule in this restaurant?”   
  
“Never go behind the bar,” Anna mumbled. Emma squeezed her eyes shut – this all felt painfully familiar and she could have been in the midst of her thirty-seventh impression with Killian Jones and she wouldn’t ever want him to know why. That was, absolutely, not on the record.

Granny hummed in agreement. “Exactly. Now, would any of you young ladies care to explain why you were all so intent on breaking the rules. Shouldn’t you be playing?”

“We’ve got guests, Granny,” Ruby supplied, nodding towards the two men behind Emma, both of whom looked slightly shellshocked at the scene unfolding in the middle of goddamn Times Square.

The restaurant went silent, everyone waiting for Granny to issue some kind of decree as to what happened next. She finished wrapping Anna’s hand first, muttering something about making sure it didn’t get infected, before walking slowly around the bar and staring at Killian and Will like she was appraising them.

“Why the leather?” she asked and Emma sighed loudly, letting go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Oh my God,” she groaned, dropping back onto a stool. Ruby rested her chin on her shoulder, toying with the ends of her hair and smiling fondly at her grandmother.

Granny shrugged. “That’s an honest question. It’s August. They have names?”

“Killian Jones and Will Scarlet,” Emma said. “They’re those reporters we told you about. The ones Mary Margaret set up.”  
  
“Oh, right, right to make you all famous.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed, but she resisted the urge to groan again and that felt, almost, grown up. “That’s his call. Not mine.”  
  
“That’s not really how journalism works, Swan,” Killian said softly, something just on the edge of his voice that sounded like disappointment or frustration or the tension she could feel sitting in between her shoulders like a dead weight.

_V. V. V. V. V._

“You’re doing that thing with your face again, love,” he continued and he was in her space before she could move. She couldn’t move – Ruby still had her chin hooked over her shoulder. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t actually murder me before we got to have an actual conversation.”  
  
“Is that not what we’re doing now?” Emma challenged, pressing her lips together tightly when Ruby pinched the back of her shirt. “And I’m not actually killing you. Just kind of...mocking it up in my head.”   
  
“I’m not sure that’s better.”

She laughed, quiet and nervous, but a laugh all the same and she hadn’t objected to _love_ the last two times he’d used it. Not like she was keeping track.

Obviously not.

“So,” he continued. “Thoughts?”  
  
“On the pros and cons of virtual murder plans?”   
  
“No. On that conversation. And maybe a bit of background. On you and the team and the game in general. Scarlet was right, that’s kind of the point of this. Meet and greet or something a little less ostentatious sounding and, like you said, you’re the leader here.”

Ruby let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a guffaw and a cackle and Anna dropped another glass. “Oh my God,” Emma mumbled again, doing her best to ignore Granny’s very loud string of curses.

She was a bit surprised to see Will – or Scarlet or whatever – practically leap towards Anna, only pausing long enough to rest his cameras on the bar top. Killian rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s some kind of dashing gentleman,” he grinned.

“Which makes you what, exactly?”

The smile got bigger. “I’m always a gentleman, love.”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, just a bit more breathless than she wanted. Ruby made another noise. “Rubes,” Emma hissed, moving her elbow quickly. “You think you could make that tea or whatever?”   
  
“Whatever,” Ruby repeated skeptically.

“Yup. Whatever.”  
  
“Does our intrepid reporter still want to get drunk at a questionably early time in the morning?”   
  
“I think I have reigned in that particular urge,” Killian said. He was still far too close to Emma. She couldn’t really breathe.

“Color me impressed. Although, for future reference, if you do show up at some time after noon, or get crazy, five o’clock, Granny does make a pretty mean Irish coffee.”  
  
“Isn’t that usually Bailey’s?”   
  
“Obviously. What were you looking for?”   
  
“Rum,” he said simply. Ruby’s eyes darted towards Emma and she tried to shrug without actually making it too obvious that she was trying to make sure she wasn’t being obvious. Killian laughed.

“Yeah, that’s not how Irish coffee works,” Emma said.

“Well acquainted with the bar stock, Swan?” Killian asked.

“Granny lets me pick up extra shifts when I’m in New York.”  
  
“In New York?”   
  
Emma groaned, rolling her head back towards the slightly ancient ceiling that Granny had to have redone a few years before. “Off the record,” she muttered and Killian mumbled a quiet _of course_ she barely heard. “Alright. You’ve got ten minutes counselor.”   
  
“I think you’re confusing metaphors.”

“Cutting into your time.”  
  
“Should I set an alarm?”

“That’s ok,” Emma said, glancing over her shoulder when he didn’t immediately follow her towards one of the booths in the far corner of the dining room. “Belle’s some sort of human computer, so when Ruby inevitably reports back to her…” Emma pushed up from her seat, glancing at the edge of the bar to find the two women just a few inches apart, heads huddled together. She nodded. “I knew it,” she laughed. “Good news does, after all, travel fast.”  
  
Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, lower lip stuck out and Emma tried to push a string of wholly inappropriate thoughts out of her mind. Jeez. She had no idea where those came from. Probably Boston. If she had to guess.

“We’ve jumped from metaphors to clichés, Swan,” Killian said. It sounded a bit like an accusation.

“Having trouble keeping up then? Don’t you have a degree in English or something?”  
  
“Journalism.”   
  
“From?”   
  
“Hunter.”   
  
“I have no idea what that is.”   
  
“CUNY school. Uptown. Good journalism program.”   
  
“Speak English.”   
  
He laughed, resting his elbows on the table and propping his chin up on his hand. His one hand. God, she was staring again. “City University of New York,” Killian said slowly, emphasizing every single letter of every single syllable. She was thinking those horrible, no-good, vaguely dirty thoughts again.

_Get a grip, Emma. Primary fire. Secondary fire. Reload. Attack. Attack. Attack._

“So,” she said said slowly. Why was she still talking? “You’re from New York then?”  
  
“I feel like we’re doing this backwards.”

“Was that an answer?”

“No,” he admitted. “But, yes.”  
  
“I’m confused.”   
  
That grin was infuriating. And distracting. And kind of overwhelming. It was very hot in that very air conditioned restaurant all of the sudden. “No, that wasn’t an answer,” Killian said. “But, yes, I’m from New York. Originally.”   
  
“So the Boston sponsorship was…”   
  
“A job,” he finished sharply and the tone of his voice left little room for anymore questions. Emma found some anyway.

“A reporting job? Did you write for another Mills site? I didn’t know they had more than one.”  
  
His gaze shifted slightly, a departure from the joking and the teasing and Emma wondered if time travel was possible in the real world and if she’d have to sell her _entire_ soul to get in on that action. The blue in his eyes turned darker, tongue darting out between his lips and he pulled his left hand off the table, dropping it without much ceremony, and a very loud thump, onto the side of the booth.

“What would you do?” she asked quietly. She really needed to learn when to shut up. She’d never learned that lesson. It drove David insane. It drove her teammates insane. It drove opposing players insane, each of them regularly cursing her out in the middle of games and then, usually, falling right into her plan and, promptly, dying.

Emma talked until she knew what to do.

Killian pulled his eyes up slowly and Emma bit her lip as soon as he looked at her, something that felt distinctly like _feeling_ settling into the space between them. He didn’t move his hand back onto the table. “When?” he mumbled.

“When dealing with a particularly difficult source?”  
  
He barked out a laugh, shoulders drooping just a bit. “I apologize,” he said. “I’m not trying to be a difficult source. In order of your questions – yes, no, they don’t.”   
  
“Can I follow up?”   
  
“Sure. But only because you’ve used appropriate jargon.”   
  
“I can’t believe you just used the word jargon in an actual conversation.”   
  
“To be fair, I’m not sure I’ve ever really had a conversation quite like this,” Killian smiled. “But if my journalism 101 class is to be trusted, jargon is the appropriate term.”   
  
The muscles in Emma’s cheeks were starting to cramp up. This was the strangest conversation she’d ever had. Ruby was staring at her. “I don’t know that I trust a class that’s just called journalism 101. Seems kind of basic.”   
  
“Try something new then. Trust me on this one.”   
  
They were walking some kind of conversational tight rope – while carrying, at least, seventeen swords. And Emma wasn’t convinced they weren’t already nursing several critical wounds.

She narrowed her eyes, lip back between her teeth and tried to snuff out the anger she could feel boiling in the pit of her stomach.

Trust was not a term Emma was particularly familiar with – or particularly comfortable with. Especially when it came to strangers and multiple attempts at a first impression and tight ropes. She could count the number of people she trusted on her hands and most of them were standing at the far end of the bar, trying to hear what she absolutely was not saying.

David would tell her to _think of something happy_ to _close her eyes and remember home,_ but that felt a little bit like cheating since the home he was always talking about had only really ever been his and she’d been a teenage disaster that his mother had agreed to foster when the house in Portland shut down because of budget cuts.

And then he’d left – he had a life to live, after all – and Mary Margaret had gone with him and Storybrooke was never really Emma’s home.

Nothing was.

So she’d left too. Seventeen years old and wandering through New England with the hope of finding _something_ that would feel like _something_ and she did.

Not really.

She thought….well she thought a lot of things, but that had all blown up in her face and they didn’t have video game consoles in jail.

Emma Swan didn’t do trust.

“Swan,” Killian said, fingers tracing across the back of her wrist and she knew that wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention. She pulled her hand away quickly, nearly elbowing herself in the spleen in the process and he looked like he was a bit nervous she was going to actually attack him in the corner of Granny’s.

“Yeah, still here,” she announced. “Sorry, sorry.”  
  
“You don’t have to apologize, love. You just went all glossy-eyed for a few minutes. I was curious where you went.”   
  
“Hmmmm?”   
  
“Memories have a very specific type of look to them.”   
  
“You’re trying to interview me,” she said, voice low and accusation obvious.

Killian shook his head and they’d jumped from metaphor to cliché to _serious_ so quickly, Emma was certain she had whiplash. That wouldn’t help her keep her balance on that tightrope. Back to metaphors. “I’m not,” he promised. “Just genuine curiosity and concern. I didn’t even bring a pen with me.”   
  
“That’s kind of shitty for a journalist.”   
  
And that was another _love_ without a contradiction.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that your team is going to immediately find fame and fortune because Gina decided this was something I should be doing.”  
  
Oh. He hadn’t agreed to this. He probably didn’t even want this. And he kept calling Regina Mills, executive editor of _The Daily Caller_ by some kind of weird, familiar nickname.

Well, fuck.

“Can I ask my follow-up now?” Emma pressed, trying to keep her voice even.

Killian blinked. “Yeah, of course.”  
  
“What did you do in Boston? Honestly.”   
  
“Have I not been honest this whole time?”   
  
“You’re deflecting,” she groaned. “And I’ve got, like, eighty-two questions I want to ask, so you’re getting off fairly easy here.” He did something ridiculous with his eyebrows, one side of his mouth quirking up and Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh God, ew.”   
  
“Alright,” Killian said, tapping a quick rhythm on the imitation wood of the table. “No more deflecting. And I’m being totally honest with you. I worked in Boston for several years after I left a string of other reporting jobs that were increasingly less and less what I wanted to do when it came to reporting jobs. I was the crime reporter for _The Boston Herald_ , covered breaking news, shootings, deaths, lots of blood. The shit no one else wants to cover because it’s absolutely depressing. You can ask Scarlet for his opinion on that, if you’d like to confirm your sources.”   
  
Emma shook her head slowly, not quite sure what the appropriate response to that kind of soliloquy was. “No, that’s ok,” she mumbled. “I believe you.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
They didn’t say anything for what felt like several eternities or, at least, a few sunlit days, the only sound in the restaurant the quiet murmurings coming from the bar as Will said something that made Anna cackle and Elsa crack a smile behind a well-placed hand.

What was that one control? _Healing and something about buffers?_ X?

It might have been X.

_X. X. X. X._

“Are you playing the game in your head again?” Killian asked suddenly and Emma nodded before she could come up with a better excuse.

“How could you tell that?”  
  
“You’re something of an open book.”   
  
“What?” she shouted, the flush creeping back into her cheeks and up her neck until she was certain she was actually sweating on her side of the bench. “No. That’s insane. You’ve known me for, like, two seconds.”   
  
“I think you’re timing might be a little off there, Swan. Should we get the human computer over here to confirm?”   
  
“You knew I was being sarcastic about that before.”   
  
“I did. And you’re proving my point.”   
  
She sighed, breath rushing out of her nose loudly and quickly and, probably, less-than-attractively. That last one didn’t matter. She wasn’t trying to be attractive. She had a game to play. And win. And a career to get started.

Stability.

That was the point of this.

Play the game, get out of David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, get David and Mary Margaret to stop acting like she was their twenty-eight-year-old kid and then, maybe, find a home. Or something.

At least make enough money to buy more than Pop-Tarts.

“Fine,” she grumbled, eyes doing something totally unfair when Killian shrugged out of his jacket. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Getting comfortable?”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“This interview, Swan.”   
  
“Oh, God.”   
  
He grinned at her – all blue eyes and teasing and the curve of his mouth was _stupid_ , as if that was a thing that mouths could actually be, curved or otherwise. “Why are you only occasionally in New York?” Killian asked.

“Turning the tables, huh?” He shrugged. “Um,” Emma said, trying to consider an answer that would let her save a little bit of face. “Well, I’ve been gaming for as long as that’s been a term that people don’t automatically laugh at when they hear it and I’d been playing some other things, mostly with Ruby, but then we heard about them starting this tournament and calling it a League and the money and we figured...why not?”  
  
“Just like that? You become a professional video game player overnight?”   
  
“No, God, you really have no idea how this works do you?”   
  
“If I actually answer honestly is that going to ruin my credibility completely?” Killian asked.

Emma shook her head. “No. Why’d you agree to do this story if you don’t know anything about video games? M’s said Regina wanted this to be like a whole thing. An entire year just following us around.”  
  
“It’s a good story,” he said sincerely, looking straight at Emma like...something she couldn’t quite define. Her vocabulary wasn’t that extensive. She probably needed a degree to come up with another adjective.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian repeated. “So you’ve been playing professionally for awhile then? This is going to sound like an asshole question, but how….”   
  
“Do I pay for anything?” He laughed under his breath, tugging on a piece of hair that curled around the back of his year and nodded once. “At first it wasn’t easy, but at the risk of also sounding like an asshole, I’m really ridiculously good at video games. And absurdly competitive.”   
  
The tightrope seemed to widen just a bit until it was maybe a slab of wood or a two-by-four and Emma, finally, felt like she’d found her balance. “Confidence isn’t a bad thing, Swan,” Killian said, pulling both his hands back onto the table.

“Yeah, it doesn’t surprise me that you’d think that.” His eyebrows moved again, but he almost looked amused and Emma was half a second away from sticking her tongue out before she remembered who she was. “Whatever,” she muttered, a picture of adult responsibility. “Anyway, I’d been playing the game on and off since it was being beta tested and when they announced the League, I told Ruby I wanted to form a team and here we are.”  
  
“Where?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Where are we?” Killian elaborated, smile still etched on his face and Emma found herself staring at those crinkles around his eyes when he looked at her more than she probably should have.   
  
“A rag tag team of six-degrees-of-separation friends who are all questionably good at playing Overwatch and fairly determined to make a shit ton of money.”   
  
“That’s not a bad place to be,” he said. “Money in New York helps a lot.”   
  
“Hence the shifts at Granny’s when I’ve got two seconds to breathe. My brother would kill me if he knew I was trying to pay him to sleep on his floor, but he and Mary Margaret have done just about everything except actually roll out a red carpet since I got to the city. They deserve a bit in return.”   
  
“I thought you got a base salary?”   
  
Emma pursed her lips, alternating between that metaphor about planks of wood and keeping her balance and being undeniably impressed that Killian Jones had done, at least some of, his homework. “So you do know some things,” she smiled. “Yeah, there is and it’s, let’s say, generous, but we still have to make the cut in two weeks and get some sponsors and there’s a lot of red tape. Still. Especially since we’re….you know…”   
  
“Unexpected professional video game players?”   
  
“Yeah, exactly that. That’s why Mary Margaret, in her infinite wisdom, thought mentioning the team to Regina would be some kind of fantastic publicity idea. She likes to imagine she’s our manager, publicist and PR hack all rolled up into one.”

“A lot of responsibility for one person,” Killian mused.

“If anyone could do it, it would be Mary Margaret.”  
  
He tapped his fingers again, the rhythm slowing slightly like he was thinking. “Ok, so if I’m keeping track here, Mary Margaret is your sister-in-law. Teaches Henry, I’m assuming?” Emma shrugged. “Ok and she’s married to your brother. David?” Another nod. “How did we end up with the six-degrees-of-separation squad?”

“That’s not actually our team name you know.”  
  
“I didn’t.”   
  
“You’re not going to demand an answer? You’re really a shitty journalist, you know.” The joke fell flat – again. She should really stop talking. And trying to make jokes. She was trying to get him to smile again.

_That was insane_.

“There are more than a few people who would agree with you, Swan,” Killian muttered, self-loathing practically rolling off him in waves. It probably matched up with hers. “But, in this case, I’ll repeat myself. I’m not here as a journalist, just an interested meet’er and greet’er. And you can tell me whatever you want.”  
  
“Widow’s Wail,” Emma said. Deflecting. Again. Killian smiled. “That’s the team name.”   
  
“Yeah, I got that. Why that though? Joffrey was the worst character in that entire series.”   
  
Her eyes were going to sustain permanent damage, Emma was positive, jumping between surprise and joy and something that felt a bit like understanding. “Agreed,” she said. “But, you know, Valyrian steel is Valyrian steel and also there’s a character in the game called Widowmaker. So, puns above all else.”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“How did you know about Joffrey?” she asked, only realizing she’d started to lean forward when she felt the table push into an internal organ.

“Is Widowmaker your character, Swan?”

“Soothsayer.”  
  
“Open book.”

She rolled her eyes, but her stomach might have flipped or flopped or twisted into several naval-grade knots and Emma kind of wished she’d agreed to that drink at ten-thirty in the morning. “Are you a secret nerd, Killian Jones?”  
  
Definitely amusement. He leaned forward, fingers finder their way back to her hand and her palm and a very prominent vein that he seemed determined to trace in its entirety. Emma tried to will the goosebumps on her skin to go away, so, naturally, more appeared and oxygen was, suddenly, very difficult to come by in the back corner booth at Granny’s.

“It’s a very popular show, Swan,” he said, voice low and husky and she hated that she even knew the word husky let alone used it to describe a relative stranger’s voice. “And incomplete book series.”  
  
“You say that like you’re personally offended.”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
She laughed and, _fuck all_ , pulled her hand away. No more goosebumps. Killian dropped both his hand back to his side. “So, uh,” Emma stuttered, staring at a notch in the wood. “You asked about six-degrees?”   
  
“I did.”   
  
“Ok.”

She told him – how Ruby and Mary Margaret had gone to college together and, essentially, adopted Emma as soon as Emma returned to the land of the living nearly a decade before. She managed to leave out the whole _year in jail_ side of the story and God help her if Killian Jones who was, admittedly, a very good reporter if his ability to follow a conversation that didn’t make much sense was any indication, found out about that.

Emma met Ruby – loud and boisterous and so self confident it actually hurt sometimes – when she was eighteen and, by extension, met Granny who easily and enthusiastically opened up her restaurant as soon as Widow’s Wail decided that it was going to take on the Overwatch world a few months before.

Ruby brought in Belle, who may or may not have ben her girlfriend if they could actually decide on labels in some kind of antiquated way, after they’d met at a gaming convention at the Javits Center and Belle had brought in Anna.

Anna and Belle worked in the New York Public Library system together years before, which was an almost unbelievable idea because if there was one thing Anna was not capable of doing, it was being quiet. She almost talked as much as Emma did during games. Anna, however, had come as part of a package deal with her older sister Elsa, who didn’t say much, but was absurdly good at playing Pharah.

Tink was a recent addition, more necessity than six-degrees and only there because she’d answered a CraigsList ad and Mary Margaret promised she had a _good feeling about her_ and Emma got David to run an off-the-books background check.

She wasn’t a murderer. And she was good at the game.

They were totally going to make the League cut.

Emma told Killian all of it, and he hadn’t written down a single word, just watched her and kept staring at her with interest and understanding and she nearly growled when Ruby announced she’d _given you ten extra minutes already_ , _time to practice again._

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Killian said, standing back up and tugging something out of his pocket. A card. With a number on it.

“I thought you said you just got here,” Emma muttered. She took the card anyway.

He smiled grimly, more a grimace than the grin she’d gotten questionably used to already, and tilted his head slightly. “Gina is nothing if not prepared. She knew I’d want to write about you.”  
  
Ruby was choking on air. And Anna was actually giggling.

_V. V. V. V. V._

“The team,” Killian corrected quickly, the ends of his ears going pink again when he tugged on his hair. “Obviously. The team. A collective you.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” Emma said, nodding like some kind of novelty dashboard toy. “Sure, um, so, when do the actual interviews start?”   
  
“Whenever you want, Swan.”   
  
“You’re just leaving it up to me?”   
  
He shrugged. “Leave ‘em wanting more or something. Although I wouldn’t mind doing something around the cut in two weeks.”   
  
“That makes sense.”   
  
“So,” he continued, nodding back to the card she was still inexplicably holding. “Let me know what works for you guys and we can go from there. C’mon, Scarlet. You owe me some coffee.”   
  
He flashed her another smile – warm and _honest_ and enough to make Emma’s whole mind reel at even the thought of it – and then he walked out the door, Will Scarlet half a step behind with his head twisted over his shoulder to gape at Emma.

Or, at least, that’s how Ruby recounted the morning when Mary Margaret asked about it that.

“It was,” Ruby said dramatically, falling back on hand gestures to really _paint the scene_ , “like the journalism heavens opened up and delivered one, Killian Jones to change Emma Swan’s entire life.”   
  
“Aw,” Mary Margaret smiled. She glanced at Emma just a bit wistfully, reaching out to brush her hand over her forearm and ignored whatever strangled noise David made from the kitchen.

Emma rolled her eyes. “You both need to stop and then retreat, quickly.”  
  
“I had to give them ten extra minutes of one-on-one conversation,” Ruby whispered, like she hadn’t mentioned that sixteen times already.

“That seems like a sign, Emma,” Mary Margaret said. “If Rubes hadn’t shown up after the second ten minutes would you have just kept talking?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “No.”   
  
That was a lie.

It was very easy to talk to him. And banter. And maybe flirt? It felt a hell of a lot like flirting. It shouldn’t have. There were probably moral codes about journalists flirting with their subjects.

“Hey,” Emma said sharply and Mary Margaret nearly dropped whatever craft she was doing. “What are you making right now?”  
  
“I’m cutting up fabric so that the kids and I can make do-it-yourself book covers next week.”   
  
“This is the most boring Friday night in the history of the world.”   
  
“Well, that’s rude,” Mary Margaret muttered, jerking her scissors straight through the fabric in her hand. “And it’s the last week of camp. I’m running out of ideas, so give me a break.”   
  
“Also, she’s trying to change the topic of conversation,” David muttered knowingly, a bottle in one hand and a smile on his face and Emma rolled her eyes again. “Your face is going to get stuck that way.”   
  
“You don’t know science,” Emma hissed, eyes darting towards the laptop screen perched on Ruby’s leg. “Why are you watching that?” she asked. “You know it’s just going to make you mad.”   
  
Ruby shrugged, but didn’t answer, groaning when the voice on the stream started shouting again. “Shit, this asshole is making us look like chumps. You know some guy just donated five thousand dollars.”   
  
“Shit,” Emma breathed. “It’s because of that name. People think it’s funny if some guy with a funny voice calls himself Pan and plays video games all the time.”   
  
“Remind me again why we’re not doing this?”   
  
Emma slumped into the corner of the couch, grabbing a pillow and, promptly, stuffing her face into it. They’d covered that as well – more times than they’d covered how much she absolutely, positively was not flirting with Killian Jones all morning.

Streaming made money. A shit ton of money. And didn’t require teams or CraigsList ads to fill out teams or League cuts that might see this dream shot down before it even had a chance to pick up much steam.

Streaming was, also, uncertain. It was about the face and the look and the entertainment value and if you weren’t a _name_ then no one was going to pay a ten-bucks-a-month fee to watch you play a video game or, more importantly, donate a shit ton of money.

“We’ve been over this, Ruby,” David mumbled, tugging the pillow away from Emma’s face.

Ruby glared at him. “Detective Nolan swoops in to save the day again.”  
  
“There is no swooping involved, I promise.”

“We have been over this before though,” Emma pointed out, ducking behind the pillow when Ruby threw another one at her. David groaned a quiet reprimand, but Mary Margaret smiled over another sheet of stretched out fabric and elementary DIY’s and Emma figured it was as good a time as any to launch into the string of questions she hadn’t been able to get out of her head all day.

She’d played like garbage all day.

“Hey, M’s,” she ventured and Mary Margaret hummed in response. “Have you, uh, have you ever heard anyone refer to Regina Mills as Gina?”  
  
Mary Margaret dropped her scissors. “What?” 

“Gina,” Emma repeated. “Like, you know, in passing or something.”  
  
“You’re serious?”   
  
“Oh, I knew it,” Ruby crowed. “I knew it! I knew you were thinking about him all day! Is that why you played as bad as you did?”   
  
“You played bad, Em?” David asked, brushing off Mary Margaret when she mumbled _badly_ under her breath. “Badly,” he corrected. “That’s not your thing.”   
  
“I know,” Emma snapped. David made a face, far too comfortable with Emma and any sort of temper tantrum she might be staging in the corner of his couch. “We beat every team we played. It’s not a big deal.”   
  
Mary Margaret hadn’t blinked in days and was, quite possibly, trying to read Emma’s mind. She probably could. “Why were you asking about Regina Mills?”

“Generic curiosity?”  
  
“Killian Jones called her Gina,” Ruby supplied, the words nearly bursting out of her mouth. Emma could feel a headache forming in between her eyebrows. It was probably from rolling her eyes so much.

“Is this about Killian Jones?” David asked. Emma grabbed the bottle out of his hand without a word, downing half the beer and wincing when she realized it was beer. “That’s a weird name,” he continued. “What kind of name is that?”  
  
“You’re worried about his name?” Emma asked.

“No, I’m worried about why you’re worried about his name and whatever he’s calling other women.”  
  
“Regina Mills is not just _other women_ ,” Mary Margaret said, finally setting down the fabric to sit up and level Emma with a look. They’d shifted into _important_ very quickly. “She’s a big deal.”   
  
“Yeah, I gathered that,” Emma said. “This kind of brings me back to my original question though, how do you know Regina Mills? Is she at school all the time?”   
  
“That was rude again.”   
  
“I’m curious.”   
  
“And that leads to a lack of manners?” Emma shrugged, wiggling her fingers at David, an unspoken command to get her something to drink that she’d actually want to drink. He groaned, rolling his whole head in response, but he stood up anyway, And left his beer on the table without a coaster. “Oh my God,” Mary Margaret sighed. “Animals. The whole lot of you. I’m going to tell Ruth.”   
  
“Tattle tale,” Ruby mumbled, but there was a smile on her face and something that sounded a bit like love in her voice and Mary Margaret smiled.

Emma needed to win this whole goddamn tournament. She needed to make money and find some consistency and then she needed to tell Mary Margaret and David and Ruby that they were _good_ in some kind of questionably large way and she was fairly sure she’d still be wandering around New England if it weren’t for them.

That kind of thing sounds absurd out loud.

She’d just play video games instead. That was much more mature.

“Whatever,” Mary Margaret smiled. “Emma got David out of the room under the guise of wanting alcohol.”  
  
“Or maybe I just wanted alcohol,” Emma argued.

“And to know more about Regina Mills.”  
  
“That too,” she agreed, tugging her legs up underneath her and resting her chin on her knees. “So who’s the one you’re teaching now? Henry?”   
  
Mary Margaret’s whole body visibly perked up, shoulders rolling back and neck, somehow, getting longer and she didn’t just look surprised – she looked stunned. “How do you know about Henry?” Emma was blushing. She was going to give herself a permanent skin condition. “Oh my God, did you and this guy talk about Henry Mills?”   
  
“Killian,” she corrected quickly. She also ignored whatever look Mary Margaret shot Ruby’s direction. “And just kind of in passing. There was talking. We talked. He’s a journalist!”

Mary Margaret nodded and Emma felt like she was being placated – and sixteen. “So you guys talked then?”

“Mary Margaret, God, answer the goddamn question!”  
  
Ruby nearly fell off her chair, her whole body twisting in on itself as she tried to control her laughter. David was hiding in the kitchen. With the alcohol. Emma wasn’t sure she appreciated that. “Ok, ok, I give,” Mary Margaret said, raising her hands in defeat. “Full disclosure. I have only ever met Regina Mills the one she actually did come to get Henry and Roland a couple of weeks ago. I kind of cornered her and shouted about you until she listened. I think half the reason was because her sons knew about the game.”   
  
“Sons?” Killian hadn’t mentioned that. Maybe he didn’t know? But then why call her Gina? None of this made sense.

“Yeah, well, I guess. I think Henry is hers, but Roland is Roland Locksley and I think that’s her husband’s son. I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. She seemed to love them both.”  
  
“You’re a giant, sentimental sap.”   
  
“And what kind of sap would I be if I wasn’t giant or sentimental?” Mary Margaret asked, squeezing Emma’s hand when she rolled her eyes – again. “Anyway, it’s nice. And she listened to her kids. Which is more than I can say for what she’s experienced.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what? That was dramatic.”   
  
Mary Margaret glanced at Ruby again and she just stuck her lower lip out in response. “Em,” Ruby said slowly. “Do you really not know?”

“About?”  
  
“Regina Mills and how she ended up executive editor in chief of _The Daily Caller_.” Emma shook her head. She didn’t really...follow news. Or clickbait websites with lifestyles sections. Mary Margaret looked like she was close to tears.

“You know her mother is Cora Mills,” she explained. Oh. _Oh_. Cora Mills was everywhere – seemed to own everything and had her hand in everything and she probably controlled every headline anyone in the United States saw on a daily basis.

This just got a whole lot more intimidating.

“And,” Mary Margaret continued, “as the story goes. Regina wanted to cover what she wanted to cover, was deep in the music scene in the city a decade and a half ago or so. Until something happened. There was a death. Someone at school said it was her boyfriend or her fiancé, but I don’t know if any of that was true. Anyway, she walked away from music and joined her mother’s empire and, a couple months later, she was in charge of news and climbing up the ladder and now she runs the day to day ops of the website.”  
  
Emma blinked, trying to take in that landslide of information. “Why do you know that? And did you use the word ops in real life just now?”

“She used empire too,” Ruby added, still laughing and making the weird, cautious energy of the room disappear with a few words.

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in frustration. “Yes on both accounts. And true on both accounts. It’s a sad story, Emma! She didn’t want to be in charge. Also it’s a very fancy school with very fancy parents and a very gossipy teacher’s break room.”

“Does your school have a website where they post anonymous rumors about their classmates and then sit on fill-in-the-blank museum steps?” Emma asked.

“It was the Met,” Mary Margaret answered impatiently. “And that’s a dated reference.”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Ok, so Regina Mills is a big, important journalism lady. That still doesn’t explain why Killian was using familiar nicknames and referring to kids by name. Did she say anything about him specifically when you mentioned the story?”   
  
“No. She just agreed it sounded like a really good story and said she knew someone who would be perfect to write it.”   
  
“Really? Perfect? She used that exact word?”   
  
“I mean, don’t quote me or anything.”   
  
“Where are you going with this, Em?” Ruby asked.

She had no idea – not really. She had half an idea and maybe kind of a plan and she wasn’t really sure any of them were more than wishful thinking that would only serve to, eventually, blow up in her face. “I don’t know,” Emma admitted softly, grabbing the pillow again and burying her face in it.

She wished she’d played better that afternoon.

“Can I come back in now?” David shouted from the kitchen and Emma laughed into her pillow.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for agreeing to the unspoken plan.”  
  
He grinned at her, holding out a glass of wine. “You guys want to play later? Something mindless?”   
  
Ruby didn’t even wait for anyone to answer, just jumped up and grabbed controllers, throwing them back in the general direction of the couch. “MarioKart? MarioKart? MarioKart?”   
  
“Why is she asking like it’s actually a question?” David grumbled, grabbing a controller and handing another to Mary Margaret as he tugged her back towards his side, in between him and Emma. There was not enough room on the couch for all three of them. There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

Emma ignored it.

“Is this actually mindless?” Mary Margaret sighed. “You guys are all going to dominate and I’m just going to embarrass myself again.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be like that, M’s,” Emma muttered, bumping her shoulder against her friends. “We’ll give you a head start.”   
  
“Rude. Tattling to Ruth.”   
  
They didn’t give Mary Margaret a heads start – only because David argued it was _unethical_ and Emma drank a questionable amount of wine, enough to leave her head spinning by the time Ruby fell asleep curled up in her chair. David and Mary Margaret mumbled their _good nights_ and Emma knew sleep was a distant hope. She grabbed her phone instead, typing in the name she was fairly positive had been tattooed on her brain at this point.

Killian Jones turned up nearly six-hundred thousand Google search results.

_Police commish warns of risk of ‘more bloodshed’ after double murder_

_7 boys charged in violent Quincy attack_

_DA: Boston hospital failed to notify cops of patient’s deadly assault_

“Shit,” Emma mumbled, threatening to snap her phone in half. There was story after story, each one just a bit more grisly than the last. Page four of the Google results, finally, turned up something different.

_Herald Staff Braces for Fresh Round of Cuts_

“Oh, fucking shit,” Emma hissed, nearly dislocating her thumb in an effort to scroll down her screen. She couldn’t find his name. She couldn’t really read. The whole room was spinning. And she, somehow, had even more questions about Killian Jones than she’d started with, namely just what made a laid-off reporter _perfect_ for her team.


	3. Chapter 3

He had an office.

And a couch in his office.

He’d never had a couch in an office. He’d never really had an office. And now he had both. He also hadn’t heard a single word from Emma Swan in the last week.

And it might have been driving Killian insane. Slowly, but surely. It might have also been driving his friends insane. He had an office and no reason to use it.

“Some reporter you are,” Will said, not the first time he'd pointed that out. He’d flopped onto the couch without a single word ten minutes before, draping his legs over the side and dropping half a dozen cameras on the floor. “How did you not actually get her number?”  
  
Killian didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He had an answer, just not one he wanted to share with Will Scarlet in an office building that seemed to be some kind of living, breathing entity.

“Is it always this loud in here?” Killian asked instead, leaning back against the absurdly expensive office chair that had come with the absurdly fancy office.

Regina was pulling out every conceivable stop – metaphorical or otherwise – to make this work. He probably would have been impressed if he wasn’t so frustrated that he was a piece of garbage reporter and Emma Swan hadn’t called him to set something up yet.

 _For the story_.

Absolutely for the story.

“It’s an office,” Will reasoned. He still hadn’t sat up. “You worked in a daily for years in several major metropolitan cities. Why is this weird for you?”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“Ok, then why didn’t you ask for contact info? From any of them, but especially the one you’ve been mooning over for the last week?”

Killian scoffed, mostly so his face didn’t dissolve into exactly that. “Excuse me? What was that phrase you just used? Did we just teleport to 1947?”  
  
“Why that date?”  
  
“A spur of the moment decision.”  
  
Will hummed in agreement, shifting on the couch and flopping his head to his side, staring at Killian like they were sophomores in college and trying to figure out how to pay the rent that month. “I’m serious,” he continued.

“I know you are,” Killian sighed, sliding down the chair until his knees were bent in front of him and his shirt was going to get wrinkled, crumpled up against his back. He had research to do. He had a video game to learn and a lifestyle to understand and maybe a blonde to...stalk? No, that sounded too aggressive.

That’s why he’d given her the card and resolved to hope for the best.

Because Killian could pick out a cautious source when he saw it – Emma’s slightly skittish behavior like some kind of flashing neon sign that this wasn’t just going to be _easy_. Of course not. It was a good story – she was a good story – probably the best story he’d had in as long as he could remember, some kind of decidedly optimistic _something_ that he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about for the last week.

But she was nervous and she didn’t really want to talk and, truth be told, he was fairly positive she didn’t really want him there.

The story hadn’t been her idea. Or her team’s idea. It had been some quasi public relations advisor masquerading as an elementary school teacher who had, by some journalistic coincidence, managed to get Regina to listen to her.

And Killian didn’t have time for a story that wasn’t easy and simple and, well, maybe a little fluffy.

What a goddamn disaster.

He should have gotten contact info from the entire, stupid team.

And Emma.

Definitely Emma.

“If you think any harder you’re head is actually going to explode,” Will muttered, grinning at Killian. He’d kicked his shoes off at some point. God.

“Just make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” Killian hissed. He ran his hand through his hair, practically yanking on the ends in frustration and he was no closer to understanding how any of this video game stuff worked than he had been a week before or a year before or ever in his entire life.

He was a fucking awful reporter – with no knowledge of his subject matter.

“It’s not like you’re doing anything else,” Will reasoned. “And I don’t have anywhere to go for awhile. So, uh, yeah, Hook. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Also Locksley said he might show up.”  
  
“So you’re babysitting me is what you’re telling me?”

“I said no such thing. You a master of this game, yet? Locksley said…”  
  
“Just how many conversations with Robin are you having?” Killian asked and his leg was starting to cramp up, bent the wrong way under his desk. His phone _dinged_ a few feet away from his hand and he nearly jumped towards the sound, ignoring whatever Will did with his face as he reached to grab the thing and, possibly, will a very specific person onto the other end.

It wasn’t even a phone call.

It was a notification.

That he did not remember setting up.

For an e-mail blast he absolutely did not sign up for.

“What the fuck, Gina,” Killian mumbled under his breath and Will sounded like he was actually cackling, one arm thrown over his face as the whole couch shook under his weight. “Jeez, Scarlet, I promise you, it is not that funny.”  
  
“It is,” he argued. “Did you have to put your phone number on that mountain of paperwork you signed your life away to last week?”  
  
“Probably. It all started to blur together a bit at the end.”  
  
Will clicked his tongue. “See, that’s where you made your first mistake. You’ve got to read the fine print, Hook. Otherwise you’re going to get roped into Cora’s, I don’t know, scepter of journalism dominance.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s the string of words you were looking for.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you didn’t get contact information from your sources, so forgive me for having to take over the mantle of the word leader.”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
Will chuckled again, finally pulling his arm away from his face and swinging his feet back onto the floor. “Seriously, though. That’s Cora’s thing. Everyone in the company gets ‘em when they start. Front page blasts and breaking news blasts and, I’m pretty sure, you can sign up for section specific blasts and keywords and I don’t think I can say the word _blast_ again without actually laughing.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Killian admitted. “So, wait, that’s Cora’s thing? Not Gina?”  
  
“You’ve got to stop thinking we’re all on the same team here.”  
  
Killian considered that for a moment, chewing on his lip and wondering when Will learned how to actually look like a serious adult. Probably around the same time Hannah moved to Washington and he stopped taking photos if he wasn’t promised a paycheck. They were, easily, the most depressing group of people in the entire New York metropolitan area.

And Cora Mills was nothing if not ruthless.

That was a good word for it. She’d married into money when she was young – a fact she was quick to point out to anyone with a pulse whether they wanted to listen or not – and _made something of that money_ by building up Mills Media when her husband died. _The Daily Caller_ hadn’t been much more than a glorified blog before Cora decided it was hers and, thirty-odd years later, it was one of the top sites in the entire goddamn world, with enough web traffic to make Killian’s head spin, even if that merlot story had been awful.

He’d clicked on the merlot story.

A lot of people clicked on the merlot story and every story, every day, no matter how trite the headline or the stock photo that went along with it.

It made Cora millions and, by extension, made Regina millions and only one of them was happy with that fact. She’d never admit it out loud – not when her mother was pulling the strings, but, once, Regina wanted a paper and a byline and an outlet that didn’t just tell stories. She wanted to tell _good_ stories. Stories that drew hits and revenue and gave a bit of ink, electronic or otherwise, to the so-called little guy.

Killian graduated with those same ideals and that same hope, evident in every single byline – tell the good story, the _true_ story, the story people otherwise would never hear. That changed in New Orleans and one night and _that_ story was as far from good as anything else. And Regina had gone back to Cora, had lost that shine as soon as the police told her Daniel had _just been in the wrong place at the wrong time_ and Killian never believed that story.

But it wasn’t a good one.

It was goddamn depressing.

So he ignored it and he let the _depressing_ seep into everything, let the memory of _her_ sit in the back of his head like a weight until it was as dead as the people he wrote about and that was easier than trying to fight it.

Liam would hate that.

Fuck.

“Hook, you’ve got to stop spacing out on me,” Will said sharply, suddenly right in front of the desk with one hand on the wood and the other one flicking Killian’s left forearm. Killian glared at him. Will didn’t move an inch. “Got your attention didn’t it?”  
  
“That’s an absolute dick move,” he growled.

“You really haven’t figured it out yet?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Regina is staging a battle for your soul.”  
  
Killian blinked. And then fell back on sarcasm and being an asshole and that was easy. That was comfortable. “That so?” he asked. “I can’t imagine it’ll be much of a fight.”  
  
“Asshole.”  
  
“Yes.”

Will rolled his eyes, knocking over a nameplate that likely cost a questionable amount of money so he could sit on the edge of the desk. “Can we have this conversation without you actually cracking jokes? Because this is almost serious and I need you to understand what’s happening here.”  
  
Killian wasn’t expecting that – or the look on Will’s face, back to _adult_ and meaningful and he really didn’t have anything else to do. Except maybe try and find an apartment uptown. He was going to move back uptown.

Liam probably wouldn’t like that either.

“Yeah,” Killian promised and it might have been the most sincere thing he’d said in the last week. “Explain, Scarlet.”  
  
“Cora didn’t want you here. She didn’t care about your staff cuts or your layoffs or whatever. She, and this is verbatim from Gina, said _serves him right for that spiral years ago_. I thought Locksley was actually going to punch her.”

Killian stiffened, pressing his feet into the carpet underneath him as he tried to count to ten. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Oxygen was important. Vital. He had to keep breathing. And Cora Mills had no idea what she was talking about.

It wasn’t a spiral.

It was a...downfall.

He’d been twenty-two, a year out of college with a string of bylines and a freelancing gig that was enough to pay the bills and he’d been happy. He was writing. He was telling stories. Until his phone rang. There’d been nothing but a phone call – it wasn’t anything more than a training exercise gone wrong, an engineering mishap that should have been _smooth sailing_ and, even now, the pun made Killian’s tongue feel too big for his mouth and he could taste bile in the back of his throat and the whole world felt like it was falling off its axis again.

Dead.

Captain Liam Jones, pride of no one except his younger brother, was dead. In a goddamn fucking training accident.

And the United States Navy simply expected Killian to move on. Like Liam hadn’t been the foundation of absolutely everything, hadn’t supported a career in journalism like that was even a career, like he hadn’t read every single byline, no matter where he was.

Killian got a check and an apology on template stationary and it took all of five seconds to decide he was done. He left New York the next week, paid off his half of the rent, kissed Regina on the cheek and walked away.

He stopped writing _good_ stories and started writing _any_ story, bouncing from weeklies to dailies to one company in Missouri that might have actually been a glorified newsletter. Until he got to New Orleans and sat down at a bar after writing about a triple homicide that would still probably end up below the fold and she smiled when he spoke.

Like that was just something people did.

Milah Ormagia was sad and tired and she _wanted_ in a way Killian didn’t remember wanting until he saw her. So he took and he found his way back towards something that felt a bit like happiness and if he closed his eyes he could still remember the exact curve of her smile and the way her hair frizzed softly in the humidity and how cold her hand felt in his when he woke up on pavement with lights and sirens blaring around him.

It almost seemed ironic that when the doctors told him they _did all they could_ , they took _that_ hand. He was a goddamn dismal story.

“So,” Killian said, licking his lips and trying to keep his voice even. He wasn’t fooling Scarlet. “If Cora didn’t want me here, how did this happen? It’s not like Gina to just…”  
  
“Stand up to her mother like that?” Will suggested. Killian shrugged. “I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what she said exactly, but whatever it was did the trick. Cora agreed, as long as you bring in the hits. That’s the deal. You write you want. You tell this good story and you bring in the ad revenue and Cora won’t kick you out of this very fancy office.”  
  
“When did Gina even find the time to decorate this?”  
  
“I’m not convinced she sleeps.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Killian mused. “Ok, so let me get this straight. Gina promises Cora I can bring in the numbers and that’s, suddenly, good?”  
  
“It’s because she thinks you won’t.”  
  
Oh. Yeah, that made sense. Cora wasn’t exactly the nurturing sort. She was more the _take what you want and fuck anyone who stands in your way_ sort. And, in this instance, Killian was very much in the way. And very much a reminder of why Regina wanted to write in the first place.

“Shit,” he sighed, hand back in his hair and shoulders sagging with the sudden weight of the journalism world on his shoulders.

“It’s a good story,” Will said, like that would just make everything alright. “And if you do this the way you can, then, maybe, Cora will loosen up a little bit.”  
  
“You honestly believe that?”

Will shrugged, tugging on the end of the Hunter Alumni shirt he must have pulled out of the back corner of his closet that morning. “You can write, Killian,” he said simply. “That’s always been the case. Gina wouldn’t have brought you home if she didn’t agree. Or think you could do something here that can change this whole, stupid clickbait site. But, you know, no pressure or anything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Killian scoffed. He’d bit his lip, blood in his mouth and nerves in the pit of his stomach and he wished, not for the first time since he’d come back home, that Liam was there. If only to listen to him whine.

God, he wanted to whine.

And maybe talk to Emma Swan again.

“Really though,” Will continued, crossing his arms lightly over his chest. “I’m not saying you’re changing the world with video game stories. But they seemed like good people and it’s interesting and it’s...I don’t know, nice.”  
  
“Nice,” Killian echoed skeptically.

“If I used the word _good_ again, my brain is actually going to explode.”  
  
Killian smiled, some of the tension that had been tight as a vice at the base of his skull loosening just a bit. “You’re a poet, Scarlet.”  
  
“And you don’t have to write about death because it’s the only thing you think you’re worthy of doing anymore. We’ve come full circle. You get to come home, save the integrity of the modern journalism world and get the girl.”  
  
“What was that last part?”  
  
“Yeah, honestly, what was that last part?” Robin leaned around the open doorway, eyebrows lifted and something that might have been amusement lingering on his face as Killian tried to groan as loudly as he possibly could.

“Don’t you have a section to run?” Killian asked, grabbing one of the, apparently, two-hundred pens sitting on his desk, and tapping it loudly. Robin grinned.

“No,” he said. “It’s a website, Killian. There’s like..three people actually sitting in news right now.”  
  
“Oh, to be the high and mighty editorial elite.”  
  
“Twerp.”

Killian winced. “That just makes me think you’re disciplining Henry and Roland.”  
  
“You think I call my kids twerps? What kind of father do you think I am?”

“Obviously not a very good one,” Will muttered, dropping back into the corner of the couch. “Hey, how come Regina’s never gotten me a fancy office with window walls and a couch that costs more than my rent?”  
  
“That couch does not cost more than your rent,” Robin said and it wasn’t an answer to the question. Will lifted his eyebrows. “And it’s because Gina likes Hook more than you, obviously. God knows why, it’s not like he’s actually done anything since he got here.”  
  
“Ok, that’s rude,” Killian mumbled, but he couldn’t really argue and maybe Will had gotten phone numbers during the meet and greet. He probably would have mentioned that. He absolutely wouldn’t have mentioned that.

God damn.

“Is it because he’s thinking about this girl?” Robin asked, ignoring Killian completely and sinking down next to Will with a very specific look on his face. Maybe if Killian just walked out they wouldn’t notice. He could...do something else. Anything else.

He could go back to that midtown bar and ask Granny for a phone number. Or apartment address. Or Emma Swan’s entire life history.

That last one seemed kind of extreme.

Although even the idea of walking into the middle of Times Square on a Friday in the summer was enough to leave Killian wondering where exactly he’d misplaced his mind.

“It’s totally about this girl,” Will confirmed. “She was pretty, Hook. I get it.”  
  
“God, shut up,” Killian hissed and this all felt a little juvenile. Two minutes ago they’d been talking about his entire life falling off the rails and how much Cora Mills still hated him just for breathing and now Will Scarlet was trying to gossip with him about girls like they were fourteen.

“She was!”  
  
“Wait, wait,” Robin interrupted, hands flailing through the open air in front of him. “You met her? Also can we stop using the word _girl_ , it’s freaking me out.”  
  
“We could just stop talking about this completely,” Killian suggested, but the words might have been in Latin for all the good they did him. Will was already talking over him.

“Yeah, I met her,” he said, grabbing a camera off the ground and toying with the controls on the top until he, apparently, found what he was looking for. “Here,” he continued, pushing the screen towards Robin’s face until the older man’s eyebrows shifted slightly and he hummed in the back of his throat.

“She is pretty. Is that...Hook are you the guy sitting at that booth?”  
  
Killian tried not to throw something – like his very expensive new office chair through the wall of windows behind him. Or his actual body through the wall of windows behind him. “Who else do you think it would be?” he asked impatiently.

“I have no idea,” Robin admitted, not pulling his eyes away from the few inches of photo screen. “This is just...you look happy?”  
  
“That sounded like a question.”  
  
“It kind of was. I actually think you’re smiling and you’re leaning forward. With both hands. Oh shit, Scarlet. Look at this. He’s got both hands on the table.”  
  
Will snatched the camera out of Robin’s hands, mouth going slack when he realized it was true and Killian bit his lip until he could taste blood again. When he’d woken up in the hospital they’d told him he’d been _out of it for a few days_ and that one of his lungs had collapsed and he had four broken ribs and his left arm probably wouldn’t ever be totally straight again – or complete.

He wasn’t ever much of an athlete or particularly vain, but Killian didn’t think it was selfish to want to be a whole, human being and as soon as they’d released him from the hospital, he’d realized he wouldn’t ever be.

Not again.

So he did his best to ignore it. That was a bit of a trend for him. Ignore and move on and keep writing. And never draw attention to it, the piece of plastic at the end of his arm and the straps that held it in place and left little rivets on his skin no matter what he seemed to do to try and make it even remotely comfortable.

“Oh fuck, he’s right, Hook,” Will mumbled and either they didn’t realize this was exactly the kind of conversation Killian didn’t want to have or they absolutely did not care. It was probably the second one. “You’re totally leaning in. That’s a thing, right?”  
  
“A thing?” Killian repeated.  
  
“Yeah, you know, like a peacock or something.”  
  
“English.”  
  
“He’s saying you’re into her,” Robin explained. “He has no idea how body language or animals work and it’s ruining his metaphors.”  
  
“Ah, well, yeah, of course.”  
  
“She work at that restaurant where you met the team?”  
  
Will made some kind of strangled sound, seemingly trying to melt into the corner of the couch and Robin looked incredibly confused. Actually jumping through the wall seemed like a pretty appealing option. “What am I missing?” Robin continued.

“I mean, she does kind of work at the restaurant,” Killian mumbled. “So you’re not totally wrong. I don’t think she’ll have much time for that though. If this works out.”  
  
“If what works out?”  
  
“The League cut. They’re totally going to make the cut so…”  
  
“You’re not making any sense.”  
  
“She’s on the team,” Will muttered, staring at the photo again and whatever animal metaphor he was trying to come up with. “Or, more to the point, she is the team.”

Robin was standing up and pacing and glaring at Killian like he was actually his kid and had just shown up with a detention slip. “What the fuck, Killian?” he asked sharply, not even bothering to slow down when he started talking.

He was picking up speed.

“It’s not like anything happened,” Killian argued, not quite sure what it was he was arguing exactly. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing. He’d talked. And given her his card. And maybe participated in some entirely harmless flirting.

That’s what that had been, right?

It felt a hell of a lot like flirting. Or maybe friendship? They could be friends. They should probably be friends. That would make a year-long feature series easier. If they made the cut next week.

They were totally going to make the cut.

Killian could be friends with Emma Swan. He wanted to be friends with Emma Swan. And he was kind of terrified of Ruby Lucas, fairly certain she’d actually _eat_ him if he dared put a toe out of line.

“Both hands, Killian,” Robin shouted, skidding to a stop in front of the desk and staring at him like he was defying him to object.

“There is only one hand, Locksley,” Killian said softly. “That’s how it works now. And nothing happened. Or will happen. Ethics or whatever.”  
  
Will whistled, low and judgmental and Killian wished he’d leave and wished Robin would stop doing that thing with his face. His phone made noise again – another e-mail blast. “You know you can turn those off,” Robin said, an apology without actually using the words.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“Man, Scarlet gets all the good updates first.”  
  
“You’re busy. That section we talked about. Or whatever.”  
  
“You’ve got to come up with another word.”  
  
“My vocabulary has been kind of limited recently. It’ll get better once I start writing again.”  
  
Robin quirked an eyebrow, tongue pressed on the inside of his cheek and Killian tried to take a deep breath. He just needed to write something. If he started writing something, anything, the rest of it would all fall into place.

He was positive.

“Yeah, I know,” Robin said. This had been the strangest conversation. Killian probably shouldn’t have spent so much time thinking about Emma Swan in the last few days. She had impossibly green eyes. “Although, for what it’s worth, she was leaning in too.”

Killian didn’t say anything. He couldn’t come up with a single word. And there was another person in his office.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Ariel said brusquely, nodding at each one of them in turn before settling on Robin. “We are having some kind of link disaster.”  
  
“What?” Robin balked. The shift from _concerned friend_ and _quasi parent_ to _front page managing editor_ was abrupt and just a bit jarring – his shoulders rolled back and his spine seemed to extend and Killian was half positive the slight gray at his temples looked a bit more distinguished all of the sudden.

“A link disaster,” Ariel repeated. “People are calling. Aurora’s losing her mind. I think Regina made her cry already.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian laughed, earning the ire of Robin’s glare. He grinned in response. “C’mon, Gina’s making people named Aurora cry. Who’s Aurora?”  
  
“Her assistant,” Ariel explained. Killian hummed in understanding, appreciating whatever attitude the receptionist had that allowed her to just barrel into his office like she owned it. “And she’s still kind of shaking at her desk. Because none of the links on the main page are going where they’re supposed to be going. You click on one thing and it goes to a totally different story.”

“Well, that’s not ideal,” Will laughed, thumb spinning something on the back of the camera. Robin looked like he wanted to beat him with it.

“Thank you, Scarlet,” he bit out before softening his expression slightly when he glanced back at Ariel. “Do you know where Gina is now that she’s done terrorizing assistants? She hasn’t killed any interns has she?”  
  
“We have interns?” Killian asked, joining the conversation and working another groan out of Robin. “That’s a fair question.”  
  
“Maybe not during a link crisis,” Ariel reasoned and he shrugged, pressing his lips together. “I told Aurora she needed to fix the base code, but she’s totally freaked, so I don’t think there’s anything to do on that front and Sydney is, apparently, missing in action so that’s why Cora’s pissed. More so than usual.”  
  
“You know how to fix this?” Robin asked, something that sounded a bit like desperation creeping into his voice.

Ariel shook her head. “I know the general idea of how to fix this. Sydney’s engineering or whatever his card says.”  
  
“Engineering’s just a very fancy way of saying IT. If you can fix this now, at least stem the damage, Gina might build a statue of you in the lobby.”  
  
“It’d be difficult to see around my desk if she did that.”  
  
“Yeah, you really here for the receptionist gig?”  
  
She shook her head again, hair hitting against the side of her chin and no one in that office was really telling the _full_ story. That was kind of ironic too. Maybe it was because they’d used the word _good_ so often.

“No,” Ariel admitted softly and Killian bit back a grin. “You want to go fix this link disaster though? Because I really think Aurora’s going to have some kind of actual episode if we don’t fix at least the main story.”  
  
“The main story’s fucked up too?”  
  
“What part of emergency did you not understand, Locksley?” Will asked, not even bothering to disguise his laugh. “Aren’t you an editor?”  
  
“Don’t ask him that,” Killian warned. “He’ll bite your head off.”  
  
“Both of you, shut up,” Robin snapped. “Ariel, what time is it? And how long do you think this emergency is going to last?”  
  
She tugged her phone – buzzing and possibly flashing some kind of morse code – out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. “Uh, nearly four-thirty. And I have no idea. Again, emergency kind of suggests it’s bad. We should have fixed this five minutes ago.”  
  
“Shit. Ok, um, Aurora probably can’t cope with the Subway right now, right?”  
  
Will pushed off the corner of the couch to glance over the row of cubicles on the office floor in front of them and whatever he saw seemed to make it painfully obvious that Aurora absolutely, positively could not hand the Subway at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon.

“Yeah, uh,” he stammered, dropping back onto the cushion with a thump. “That’s not happening right now.”  
  
“Shit,” Robin repeated. He grabbed his own phone, thumbs flying across the screen as he clenched his jaw tightly. “Maybe they can stay a little while longer.”  
  
“Who are you talking about?” Killian asked, fairly certain he was only half involved in the conversation taking place in his own office. That was still a weird sentence.

“He’s referring to his kids as a collective _they_ ,” Will mumbled. Robin kicked him, a string of insults that absolutely would not have been appropriate in front of his kids falling out of his mouth. “And he’s talking about picking them up from that summer program. You know where Gina met that teacher who suggested the story that your whole career is depending on?”  
  
“You are the soul of tact. And I can go get ‘em. It’s not like I’m doing anything here. I know shit about coding.”  
  
Will rolled his eyes. “You want to date your lead source.”  
  
Ariel perked up at that, eyes flashing Killian’s direction. Robin kicked Will again. “He’s not doing that,” he said, sounding like he was issuing some sort of journalism decree. “You’d really go get ‘em, Hook? Honestly?”

“Yeah, sure,” Killian nodded, grabbing his phone off the desk. He hadn’t brought anything else. He didn’t have anything to write yet.

Robin exhaled loudly, clapping him on the shoulder like he’d also just agreed to pay the tuition for whatever fancy school Henry and Roland went to. “Thanks,” he breathed, nodding towards Ariel as she moved back towards the door and the emergency. “Just bring them back home when you’re done and Gina will probably let you eat dinner with us. Scarlet can come too.”  
  
“Wow, gee thanks, Locksley,” Will muttered, slinging his cameras back over his shoulders. “No can do though. I’ve got a date.”  
  
“What?” Killian and Robin shouted at the same time. Robin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Who?” Killian pressed and Will just grinned, a stupid, frustrating look that made him regret coming into the office to begin with at all.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. Go save Locksley’s kids, Hook. I’ve got places to be.”  
  
He walked out of the office with the grin still plastered on his face and cameras hitting against his thigh, Ariel already loudly comforting Aurora on the other side of the floor. Robin didn’t move an inch, just kept staring at Killian like he was waiting for him to explode.

Killian wouldn’t have been surprised if he did.

Maybe he should take a cab.

“You ok?” he asked. “Honestly?” Killian’s lips twitched, the lie on the tip of his tongue getting twisted there. He nodded. Robin sighed. “You’ve got to work on that,” he mumbled. “Rol and Henry will be thrilled to see you. Don’t get ice cream.”  
  
It took Killian four blocks of stop-and-go traffic to decide, without question, that they were going to get ice cream. With sprinkles.

Living on the edge.

He’d probably expense it.

It took him another two blocks to decide he probably should have walked.

He handed the driver a handful of bills, promising he was _sure, yeah, yeah, it’s fine_ as he dodged between oncoming traffic and made his way up 3rd Avenue. The school itself didn’t stand out much – set between the brownstones and ivy-covered walls that were the norm downtown, but Killian could hear voices and laughter and something that might have actually been a basketball bouncing.

Or multiple basketballs.

And if he was in the sudden habit of keeping track of how long it took to realize things, it would have taken Killian two seconds, one deep breath and four basketball dribbles to know, without question, he was in the right spot. The very solid weight colliding with the side of his jeans was also a good sign.

“K, K, K, K,” Roland mumbled, added a few well placed punches in between nicknames. It was somewhere in between punch two and three that Killian felt any lingering frustration over the conversation in his office – and the promise that he absolutely did not want to date Emma Swan – ebbing just a bit as soon as the seven-year-old next to him wrapped his arms around his thigh.

There were other footsteps running towards them and Killian dimly heard Henry yell _Hook_ from the other side of the basketball court as he bent down to pry Roland’s hands off his jeans, hauling him up his side and groaning slightly when a knee collided with his gallbladder.  
  
“Steady on, mate,” Killian muttered. He got kneed in the liver that time.

“Roland, you can’t just run away like that,” said a flustered woman, sprinting towards them with wide eyes and a basketball tucked under her arm.

Roland made a noise, a mix between a scoff and a groan and Henry laughed in the background. Killian tried to look like an adult. “I didn’t run away, Mrs. Nolan,” Roland explained, sounding like he was detailing how to fix the coding emergency Killian had run away from. “I came to see K.”  
  
Mrs. Nolan’s eyes, somehow, got even wider, eyebrows shooting up her forehead and her mouth formed an almost perfect ‘o’ when she realized. She looked like a teacher, Killian thought, all bright-colored dress and a soft cardigan that matched the clip in her short, brown hair.

“Huh,” she said, regarding him softly and Killian felt like he was being judged. Or maybe examined to match up on previously reported facts.

That seemed like wishful thinking.

“Hook,” Henry said again, skidding to a stop in front of him and only avoiding another crash when Killian reached out a steadying hand. “How come you’re here? I thought Robin was coming to get us?”  
  
“Where’s Dad?” Roland asked. Shouted. He shouted the word into Killian’s ears. Mrs. Nolan was still staring.

“There was a thing at the site,” Killian explained, hitching Roland back up again when he started to droop, threatening to tear his shirt in half. “So I’m here. With ice cream as a bartering chip.”

Henry’s eyes lit up, smile practically sprinting across his face, and Roland was already yelling about chocolate chip cookie dough. Mrs. Nolan hadn’t blinked. “Alright,” Killian continued slowly, nodding back towards the sidewalk. “You guys ready to go? Do I have to sign anything or…”  
  
“Wait, wait,” Mrs. Nolan said quickly, tugging on Roland’s sleeve when Killian took a step backwards. “You can’t just leave.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” she said sharply and he was back to feeling like he was getting detention. “I mean...who, well, no, I know who are you. But there are rules. An actual parent is supposed to let us know if someone different is going to be picking the kids up. You’re not on the list.”  
  
“That’s kind of insulting,” Killian muttered, working another laugh out of Henry and that was absolutely why he’d done it. He slung his arm over the kid’s shoulders – only a few inches shorter than him – and tried to plaster on his most convincing smile. “I mean, they clearly know who I am.”  
  
“The rules, Mr. Jones.”  
  
“You clearly know who I am.”  
  
Mrs. Nolan grimaced, a muscle in her temple jumping and Killian felt guilty for a moment. She almost looked _too_ teacher’y. She shouldn’t look as stressed out as she was. Jeez. “Were you going to go next week?” she asked and that wasn’t the question he expected at all.

Killian opened his mouth to respond, but another voice joined the melee and his eyes were going to go permanently crossed if he kept trying to look at everyone at once. Ruby Lucas looked just as intimidating as she had in her grandmother’s Midtown restaurant the week before, only now she was wearing a _Legend of Zelda_ t-shirt that was, clearly, far more interesting to the two kids in the conversation than Killian’s initial ice cream offer.

“What are you doing here?” Ruby asked. Straight to the point then.

“There was a coding emergency at work and Robin couldn’t pick up Henry and Rol,” Killian answered. “So I’m here.”  
  
“You know Henry and Roland?”  
  
“I mean, yeah, obviously.”

“K’s going to take us to get ice cream,” Roland added helpfully, squirming when Killian muttered _a little quieter, mate_ against his hair.

Ruby quirked an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be writing?”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be practicing?”  
  
Mrs. Nolan tried to turn her laugh into a cough, ducking her eyes when Killian and Ruby both gaped at her. “I’m also helping out a friend,” Ruby said softly. “And we practiced this morning. Not that you’d know, since you’ve been missing in action for the last week.”  
  
“Is that a gaming term?” Killian asked.

Henry groaned. “Hook, we’ve been over this. You can’t call it that. It just makes you sound old.”

Ruby might have actually smiled. Mrs. Nolan laughed again. “Are you taking lessons from Henry?” Ruby asked knowingly.

“I have yet to find a better teacher,” Killian admitted. “In fact, post ice cream, that was the great, big Friday night plan, wasn’t it? Or it would be if we can leave. Mrs. Nolan’s call though.”  
  
“Oh man, laying it on real thick aren’t you?” Killian shrugged. “M’s did you hear that? He called you Mrs. Nolan. I’m going to tell Ruth.”

“She’ll probably think it’s nice,” Mary Margaret muttered. “This is a one-time favor, Mr. Jones. And only because I have no idea what a coding emergency is.”

“That’s ok, neither do I. That’s why I’m here. And let’s not do that Mr. Jones thing again, that’s incredibly weird.”  
  
She nodded, tossing the ball back to the group of kids behind her when they started shouting. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. About next week.”  
  
He hadn’t. He’d been hoping to avoid that. He was an absolute shit journalist. “I’m hoping to,” Killian said. Mary Margaret glanced at Ruby.

“Don’t you know?”  
  
“It’d be helpful for the story.”  
  
“And,” Ruby prodded, widening her eyes meaningfully.

“And I’m waiting for some more details,” Killian responded simply. Good. That was good. That was honest. Ruby didn’t look convinced.

“Well that’s dumb. I thought you were supposed to be a good journalist. Or at least a journalist who wanted to prove he was still good. Haven’t you won awards? Unless the Google results lied to us.”  
  
Killian pressed his teeth into his lower lip, swallowing back his immediate retort when he remembered there was a seven-year-old clinging to his side and an eleven-year-old under his arm and he was an _adult_ , god damn. He could have this conversation – even if it felt like six different conversations at once.

“Ruby,” Mary Margaret chastised, flashing an apologetic look at Killian. “Ignore her. She’s been outside for too long, it’s throwing off her zen or something.”

“Ah, yeah, video game stereotypes.”  
  
“Exactly that. Can I, uh, can I give you some advice?”  
  
“Solicited or forced?”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes narrowed and Killian ducked his gaze, suddenly far more preoccupied with his shoes than whatever was happening on that blacktop in downtown Manhattan. Henry laughed against his side. “Suggested,” Mary Margaret corrected, reaching out to rest her palm on the arm he still had wrapped around Roland’s waist. “This is all vaguely...terrifying for, well, you know. But, uh, I wouldn’t have said anything to Regina if I didn’t think this could work. For all of you. And she totally Google’d your name on my couch a week ago.”  
  
Killian’s stomach twisted at that, several knots that even Liam probably would have been proud of forming in his gut. It might have also been Roland’s knee. And he could only imagine what she found on the internet.

Fuck.

He was going to get chocolate dip on his ice cream – forget the goddamn sprinkles.

“Ah, well,” he stammered, eyes still staring at his feet. “That’s...good to know. And I kind of got that impression already.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“So what are you going to do about it?” Ruby asked sharply and Killian jerked his head back up. He nearly dropped Roland.

“Excuse me?”  
  
Mary Margaret sighed, her hand falling across her face until she was peering at them between her fingers. Ruby didn’t budge an inch. “I don’t think I need to repeat myself,” she growled. “How come you haven’t been back to practice? Or have a concrete answer about writing something for the cut? We’re totally going to make the cut.”  
  
“I know,” Killian said easily.

Ruby’s eyebrows pulled low, head tilted slightly and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Yeah?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I think that?”  
  
“Shouldn’t you answer questions better? You’re a journalist.”  
  
“You keep throwing that fact in my face,” Killian laughed. “Trust me, I’m aware of it. And I’m purposely avoiding questions because I know how.”  
  
“That is infuriating.”  
  
“Try doing it on deadline.”  
  
Ruby grinned that slightly predatory grin, tongue pressed against her cheek and she turned to look at Mary Margaret again like she was looking for confirmation of...something. Mary Margaret nodded. “Ok,” Ruby said, holding her hand out expectantly. “I’m going to do something, but if you screw this up, I’m going to push you in front of the uptown 1. Got it?”  
  
“That is oddly specific,” Killian muttered. Ruby wiggled her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Your phone. I want your phone. I am _helping_ you.”  
  
“Strangely enough, I’m not getting that vibe.”

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, bumping her shoulder against Ruby’s and her face was nearly as red as the sweater she had on. “I can’t blame the sun again,” she mumbled. “This is just her.”  
  
“Phone, Jones,” Ruby commanded and Killian dropped the thing in her hand without another word, having to shift Roland just a bit in the process. Several of his internal organs were going to suffer permanent damage from this conversation. “You learn anything about the game yet?” she continued conversationally, typing something into his phone and handing it back to him with a glint in her eye.

Killian glanced down, breath hitching in his throat when he saw the brand-new name in his contacts. _Swan_. No, _Emma_. No, _Emma Swan_. Just a last name and, maybe, a nickname and Ruby probably hadn’t been asking about Overwatch.

“That’s a distinct work in progress,” Killian admitted and Ruby hummed. “I can almost name all the characters now though.”  
  
“We’re working on powers,” Henry added. “And why Roadhog is the worst character to play.”  
  
“What?” Ruby gasped. “Please, kid. That chain hook is a huge help when you’re fighting in close quarters. And he doesn’t take much to get back to full health. He’s an underrated character.”  
  
Henry shrugged. “I like Doomfist.”  
  
“You can play Doomfist?”  
  
“Yeah,” he nodded. “The canon is sweet.”  
  
They were never going to get ice cream. And Roland was getting impatient. “Alright, kid,” Killian interrupted, pulling on the back of Henry’s shirt when he ducked out from underneath his arm to try and recreate a part of the game. “C’mon. I promised Robin you guys would be home eventually. And if we’re going to sneak ice cream, we’ve got to go now.”  
  
“Ice cream,” Roland repeated shrilly, lunging towards Henry and nearly face planting on the ground. All three adults in a five-foot radius moved at the same time. “Henry, we have to get ice cream!”

“Yeah, yeah, ok” Henry agreed, albeit a little despondently. “But, uh, could I maybe come watch you guys play next week?” he asked, glancing hopefully at Ruby and Killian.

“Of course,” Ruby promised quickly. And maybe just a bit enthusiastically. “I mean, well, as long as it’s cool with your parents. And Killian. If he’s planning on actually showing.”  
  
“I am,” Killian said.

Ruby smiled. “Then absolutely. We’ll get you a team t-shirt.” Henry looked like he was actually going to start jumping for joy. “And maybe one for Killian too if he learns how to play the game.”  
  
He needed to find other adult human beings who were able to have a conversation without trying to actually hit him over the head with meaning.

They, eventually, did get ice cream and were no less than forty-five minutes late to dinner. None of them ate dinner. They’d had ice cream instead.

And Regina was going to kill him.

“Seriously?” she hissed for what was, at least, the forty-second time since Killian had walked into the full-floor apartment on Spring Street hours before. Roland was asleep between them, head on Regina’s lap and feet draped over Killian’s legs, while Henry tried to explain what it was something called a Junkrat did and why he was so important to winning the game.

The actual one. Not the metaphorical one.

“You fix the coding on the site?” Killian countered and Regina raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Make any other assistants cry?”  
  
“Ass,” she grumbled.

“You’ve got to come up with better insults, your majesty. These are just getting redundant.”

She rolled her eyes, brushing her fingers over Roland’s hair. “I only have one assistant. By the way.”  
  
“I didn’t know you had any. People like to keep me out of the loop.”  
  
“Including your sources?”  
  
“You checking up on me?” Killian asked, hoping against some kind of improbable hope that sarcasm and even more deflection would get him the hell out of the conversation. Not with Regina. And not in her domain. Or something. The whole goddamn city was her domain at this point. Maybe that’s why he was still staying in a hotel uptown.

Regina leveled him with an even stare, eyes boring into his brain and possibly his soul and Killian wouldn’t have been surprised if she was just reading his mind when his phone started to ring – loudly. Roland grumbled, one foot pressed roughly into Killian’s thigh as he tried to grab his phone off the coffee table before it could actually shatter or Regina could keep hissing _god, turn your volume down_.

He nearly dropped it.

 _Swan_.

“Huh,” Regina said, peering at the screen over shoulder. “Must be nice to have sources that return your calls.”  
  
“You say that wistfully, your majesty,” Killian muttered. He couldn’t seem to move.

“Answer your phone, Killian. Preferably in another room.”

He tried to extricate himself from what felt like the limbs of several seven-year-olds, careful not to knock Roland off the couch as he moved towards the hallway and swiped his thumb across his phone screen. “Hello?” he asked softly, dimly aware of Regina’s not-so-quiet laughter.

“Uh, hi, hey,” Emma mumbled and he was smiling. He could feel the muscles in his cheeks move, lips quirking up quickly and automatically and, well, that was weird. He stopped three-quarters of the way down the hallway, sliding down the wall and stretching his legs out. He hadn’t actually said anything back. “Killian?” she asked.

He hit his head on the wall.

“Yeah, yeah, here,” he said quickly, nearly stumbling over the words in an effort to get them out. “I, uh, is everything ok, Swan?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Silence. Dead silence. Dead, uncomfortable silence.

“Well, no,” Emma corrected softly and those knots in his stomach had made a rather glorious return. “I...I wanted to apologize.”  
  
“For what, love?” The word was out of his mouth before he could even consider it and he heard the change in her breath, the soft catch like she couldn't quite get enough of it. Killian knew the feeling. “Sorry, no nicknames.”  
  
“You’ve broken that rule twice already, you know.”  
  
“Yeah,” he laughed softly. “I realize that. It’s, uh...habit, I suppose.”  
  
“You frequently call all the girls nicknames? Set ‘em at ease so they start spilling their on-the-record guts?” He shook his head, only realizing he was still sitting in a hallway when Emma laughed in his ear. “See, your silence kind of answers the question for me.”  
  
“I can neither confirm nor deny that it is sometimes easier to get information out of sources when one is trying to be decidedly charming.”  
  
If he got Emma to laugh like that – simple and easy and like some tiny, warm light that seemed to seep into the very center of him in the hallway of an apartment he didn’t live in – Killian would be certain coming back to New York was the right choice.

It kind of felt like the right choice.

“So what you’re telling me is you think you’re charming?” Emma asked.

“Decidedly.”  
  
“Is that what you were trying to do before? Last week I mean. Charm me to get me to talk?”  
  
“No,” Killian said, an immediate and honest response that sounded like he was shouting the word into the phone.

She stopped laughing and Killian resisted the urge to sigh at that. “Didn’t even bring a pen,” she whispered. Fuck.

“Shit journalist.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Emma argued, voice just a bit stronger than it had been all conversation. “I mean...well, that’s not what the internet said.”  
Killian narrowed his eyes – Mary Margaret’s words from that afternoon ringing in his ears. _She totally Google’d your name on my couch a week ago_. “Did you look me up, love?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t actually crack like some prepubescent kid with a crush.

That kind of went with the theme of the day.

“Did you really win a Louisiana Press Association Award for exposing a drug ring in New Orleans?”  
  
Huh. She must have Google’d for a very long time. And that felt like some kind of distant memory – he’d been in the hospital when they held the fucking awards ceremony. He never even saw that plaque.

“Killian?” Emma pressed. He hit his head again.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Was that an answer to the original question or just acknowledging me shouting your name?”  
  
He laughed – sharp and shaky, but a laugh all the same and he wished he’d called her first. Ethics. There were ethics involved and this had gotten very murky, very quickly. “Both,” Killian smiled. “How far back did you go on those search results, Swan?”

“Mary Margaret shouldn’t gossip like that. It’s very unlike her.”  
  
“To be fair, she was distracted. A charming guy like myself, shows up at her school and promises two adorable kids ice cream. It’s no wonder she didn’t just start spilling your entire life story to me by default.”  
  
Emma made a strangled noise, a gasp and maybe _sheer terror_ and Killian was back on his feet quickly, heart hammering against his chest as he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. “Swan? Are you ok?”  
  
“Fine,” she bit out, exhaling loudly. “Fine, I’m fine. Jeez. I’m...this conversation is garbage isn’t it?”  
  
“Confusing,” Killian conceded. “I wouldn't call it garbage, though.”

“Generous. You want to talk about the Louisiana Press Association now?”

“What about it?”  
  
“Exposing a drug ring seems a far cry from video game stories,” Emma said. “And mass murderers in Boston.”  
  
He chuckled under his breath, sinking back onto the floor and tugging on his hair. “They’re all stories in the end, Swan.”  
  
“Good ones?”  
  
“Some more than others.”  
  
“Follow-up?”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Killian said and he was absolutely the one being charmed. God, he should have asked Mary Margaret more questions. He was too terrified of Ruby.

“Why go to the mass murders? I mean, was that, like, a personal decision or a front office thing? Is that even a journalism term? Front office? Editorial! That’s what it’d be called right, editorial? And why stick in Boston? That’s the longest you were in one spot for a really long time. Even longer than New York and….” She cut herself off, gasping slightly when she realized her follow-up was more of a short speech. Killian was grinning like a fool at the opposite wall. “Shit,” Emma mumbled. “That was a lot. You should have told me to shut up.”  
  
“I didn’t want you to shut up.”

“Oh.”  
  
“Start from the beginning, huh?” Emma hummed and he could almost picture her sitting across from him – the way her tongue had darted across her lips when they sat in the booth, how she twisted her hair around her fingers and rolled her shoulders when she was nervous.

“Alright,” he began. “So I grew up in New York, went to school here, like I told you, started writing here until...circumstances changed. And so I left. Went to Colorado for a couple of months because it was the furthest thing from New York I could imagine. Realized I couldn’t quite stand mountain air or, you know, mountains. Then did stringer work at what felt like seven-hundred newspapers on the west coast, liked that a little bit more, appreciated the Bay Area for the water and the seafood. Then got a job offer in New Orleans and stayed there for…”

He squeezed his eyes closed, memories washing over him, scents and sounds nearly reaching out and smacking him in the face. He glanced down, staring at his left hand and half expecting to find someone else there.

Of course not.

That was a long time ago.

“So, I stayed in New Orleans for a little over a year,” Killian said. “Started covering news, breaking or otherwise and that story you’re talking about, the one that won the awards, it, uh, took me my whole stint in the city.”  
  
“Is that why you left?” Emma asked breathlessly.

“Kind of.”  
  
“And you just figured you start with the drugs and turn to homicides because….”  
  
Killian shrugged, treading on thin ice in late August. “It made sense,” he admitted, a quiet explanation he’d never actually said out loud. “No one else wanted it. So I took it because I could. They were stories.”  
  
“Control,” Emma whispered and Killian made a noise in the back of his throat. “You wanted to have some control.”  
  
Well, fuck.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s...exactly it, actually.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that.”  
  
They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn’t quite as deadly or uncomfortable as it had been before. It felt a bit like understanding. And maybe he was reading way too much into a second conversation.

“Why did you want to apologize, Swan?” Killian asked, wincing when his voice cut through the silence.

She laughed. “Oh, for M’s and Ruby. This afternoon. On several different fronts. Including M’s being difficult about you getting ice cream to the aforementioned adorable kids. Although, out of context that does sound kind of weird.”  
  
“She was doing her job.”  
  
“Yeah, she’s fairly certain her job is to mother me.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing, Swan.”  
  
“No,” she sighed. “It’s not. But she shouldn’t have to. Not anymore at least. And, maybe, I’m apologizing for something else too.”  
Killian sat up straighter, pressing his phone against his ear with his shoulder and rubbing his thumb against the top of his brace. “What’s that, love?”  
  
“For not telling you when and where the cut was and that I, well, I mean, the team, we’d like you to be there. For the story.”

 _For the story_.

Right. Of course. No other reason except the story. Certainly not because he’d just explained Killian Jones, crime reporter with an extensive knowledge of blood adjectives for the first time since his inception seven years before.

That would be insane.

“That’s alright, Swan,” Killian said, hoping to infuse some sort of _belief_ into the words and the nickname. “That’s not your job. Any journalist worth his salt would have been able to figure it out. Or gotten in contact with you.”  
  
“Is this your sly way of saying you didn’t want to contact me?” He nearly screamed the word _no_ into the phone. He probably would have woken up Roland. And he could hear Emma’s smile in her laugh on the other end of the phone, a couch creaking slightly when she moved. “So that’s a no, then?”

“That’s a no.”  
  
“Friday. Playstation Theatre. Like all day. We’ll be the ones wearing questionably tacky matching t-shirts, so you should probably put that in your lede.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
“Ok,” she said and it sounded like she was still smiling. He really hoped she was still smiling. “So I’ll see you then?”  
  
“I’ll text you when I leave.”  
  
Killian grimaced, eyes snapping closed again and _shit_ – step too far. At least he hadn’t called it a date. Thought it, sure. Goddamn fucking ethics.

“That sounds like a plan,” Emma muttered and maybe this wasn’t a disaster. “Do you...do you like coffee? I could bring you coffee.”  
  
“I like coffee,” Killian grinned.

“I’ll be the one with coffee then.”  
  
“Good. Good night, Swan.”  
  
“Night, Killian.”  
  
He sat on the hallway floor for at least another five minutes after the phone went dead, grumbling out a quiet _shut up_ when he saw Regina’s knowing look as soon as he walked back into the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fun fact. When you write things months earlier you will absolutely, positively forget how long those things you wrote are. I did not remember how long this was, but I hope the background was interesting and Killian's real sad and Henry and Roland love him. Also. Emma called first. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down or just want to shout or like, whatevs: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	4. Chapter 4

She wasn’t sure what was more annoying.

The very loud alarm she could hear a few inches away from her head, whatever David was shouting on the other side of the door or the horn honking just outside the window of her room. It wasn’t her room.

It wasn’t even really a room, per se.

It was a...corner.

And David wasn’t really on the other side of the door, he was on the other side of a partition that Mary Margaret ordered off Amazon for nineteen bucks a week before Emma had descended on their apartment with one suitcase in her hand and the hope that, maybe, this could work.

This had to work.

They’d find out in a few hours if it could.

A few hours from now, Emma would walk back into the apartment with one of two options in front of her – either she was as much of a complete failure as that tiny, nagging voice in the back corner of her brain promised her she was and even the idea of playing video games professionally was absolutely insane or, and this is where the hope came into play, she was the quasi-captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league and they were well on their way to splitting a four-million-dollar championship check with their names plastered across the internet and a string of feature stories written about them on _The Daily Caller_ and and a national spotlight that would, maybe, lead to more money.

God, those feature stories.

_God_.

Killian Jones.

She was going to see Killian Jones that afternoon. And that didn’t terrify her. Absolutely not. She was worried about the game. And four million dollars. She couldn’t even imagine four-million-dollars, let alone imagine winning an inaugural tournament that promised just historic. Probably with a comically large check.

It had nothing to do with Killian Jones or how blue his eyes were or how she kept replaying that slightly awkward, slightly strained, undeniably sweet conversation they’d had the week before.

“Shit,” Emma mumbled, slamming her hand on her phone and promptly knocking it onto the floor. She could barely make out David’s laughter a few feet away and what sounded like cabinets slamming shut and she hadn’t actually turned her alarm off.

“You know,” David shouted, throwing what sounded like a pillow full of bricks at the partition. The whole thing shook, nearly falling on Emma and her air mattress and it would almost figure that she’d get taken down by nineteen dollars worth of plastic before she even stood up.

She needed to be more positive.

She needed to find her super cheesy team-branded t-shirt. That cost more than the plastic partition.

“Were you ever going to finish that sentence?” Emma called back, finally pushing herself off the air mattress and half of it had deflated during the night. That wasn’t a sign. God, her phone was still making noise.

David chuckled again, kicking at another cabinet and drawing the mumbled reprimand of Mary Margaret – who was absolutely going to be late for work so she could _see Emma off_ or something equally maternal. “Yeah,” he said, padding across the apartment and leaning around the still-wobbling partition. “You need to learn how to control your electronics. And work on your hand-eye coordination. It sounded like you nearly knocked off your whole little compound over here.”

Emma scowled, but that was as good a word for it as any. She didn’t bring much with her to New York – didn’t _have_ much to bring to New York – but David and Mary Margaret had offered up, at least, three quarters of their living room without question, pulling an ancient air mattress out of the closet and buying an entirely new bed-set, with a questionable amount of flowers on the sheets, and pushing the coffee table against the wall so Emma had somewhere to keep her phone and her laptop.

It was, exactly, what they’d always done.

And Emma would never get used to it.

“Compound Godzilla,” David continued, eyes bright and wide and far too confident. In her. He was confident in her. Even when he was insulting her and comparing her to lizard monsters.

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with the damages,” Emma reasoned. “So you know, in the grand scheme….”  
  
“Of?   
  
“Of whatever joke you’re trying to make. Very badly I might add.”

“That’s rude, Em,” David said, but there was a laugh just on the edge of his voice and Mary Margaret was already humming under her breath. It was so goddamn domestic Emma couldn’t quite believe it was real.

She shrugged. “You need to work on your jokes. These are getting stale. And you’re the only who nearly knocked over the partition. I just almost cracked my phone.”  
  
“Whatever,” he grumbled and Mary Margaret’s humming had turned into open laughter, far too well-acquainted with whatever early-morning war of words Emma and David were staging in the corner. “I’m not going to provide you with any caffeine or the vast array of breakfast pastries I’ve procured from the place down the block.”   
  
“Did you just swallow a dictionary?”   
  
“Thesaurus,” Mary Margaret corrected, flashing a smile over her shoulder and she’d already taken a shower. Emma hadn’t even heard her wake up.

There was probably a reason for that. That stupid voice in the back corner of her mind did jumping jacks, bouncing off the sides of her brain as it tried to grab Emma’s attention and provide an explanation she didn’t really want to her – because the kids in the foster homes always cried, quiet sniffles and even louder wails, wondering what they’d done wrong and when someone would decide they were _enough_ and they could leave and, maybe, get just a bit warmer.

It always seemed to be freezing in those houses.

And, somewhere in between Hartford and Minnesota and a few weeks on the street in Boston, Emma had developed the ability to sleep through anything – crying or wailing or chattering teeth or, apparently, Mary Margaret taking a shower a few feet away.

“Em,” David said, tugging on the edge of her sleeve and jerking her out of the past. “You went all glossy for a second there. Was it because I totally impressed you with my vast and detailed vocabulary?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, taking a step towards the kitchen and accepting the mug Mary Margaret offered her. “I promise,” she said. “It had absolutely nothing to do with that.”

David’s smile wavered for half a moment and he shot Mary Margaret a nervous look, _meaning_ flitting between them and nearly becoming another sentient being right there in their kitchen. Emma sighed. “Ok,” she mumbled, taking a sip of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid and they’d bought her cinnamon. She shouldn’t have been surprised. “That’s not what I meant it like.”   
  
“Are you nervous?” Mary Margaret asked softly, a picture of support and belief and something that felt like certainty. Emma clearly hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“About the game?” Mary Margaret nodded. “No, no, I am absolutely not nervous about the game. We’re good and we’ve practiced a shit ton, enough to drive Granny absolutely insane and we don’t even have to win. Technically.”  
  
“You’re totally going to win.”   
  
Emma bit back her immediate response – a string of practicality and low expectations that absolutely did not belong in the same room as Mary Margaret Nolan.

She’d been part of the package deal that came with arriving in Storybrooke and life with the Nolans and enough _love_ to almost make up for everything else.

Actually, _arrived_ was generous. Emma had kind of stumbled into Storybrooke, nothing more than a few dollar bills stuffed into the back pocket of her ripped jeans and a blanket clutched tightly in her hands and she just needed somewhere to sleep. She didn’t expect to find a barn and a corner that was almost, nearly, sort of warm.

David found her the next morning, legs tucked up underneath her with her blanket under her head and hay stuck in her hair. Honest to God hay.

She’d run away. The house had closed a week before and there just _wasn’t enough money_ to support a run-down building and a dozen orphans that no one wanted. Including the national government. Or maybe just Maine. Emma never could remember who was in charge of that.

It didn’t matter.

The only thing she’d known was they were going to move her again and she was just supposed to agree to Florida and another _fresh start_ and she’d started running before she’d even really considered any other option.

She was going to run again as soon as David found her, hand balled up into a fist and halfway through the air when he held up his hands in surrender and asked _what she was doing here_ and promised a _hot meal and maybe a shower_ if she’d just follow him inside.

Mary Margaret was sitting at the kitchen table with Ruth when the door slammed shut behind Emma. She gave her a new set of clothes and, it seemed, Emma had found a family.

Even when she didn’t want it.

Especially when she didn’t want it.

“I know, I know,” Mary Margaret said, nudging her elbow into Emma’s side with a familiarity that made her stomach clench. “You only have to be in the top eight. Doesn’t mean I totally don’t think you’re going to absolutely wreck.”  
  
David nearly dropped his coffee. “Absolutely wreck,” Emma repeated slowly, eyes flashing up towards a determined Mary Margaret.

“Yes. Absolutely. And completely. C’mon. That’s a gaming term!”  
  
“You’re just digging yourself into an even deeper hole here, M’s. You are painfully uncool.”   
  
Mary Margaret stuck her tongue out, rolling her eyes dramatically and jumping onto the edge of the counter next to Emma. She rested her arm on Emma’s shoulder, elbow pushing into the side of her neck and it probably would have been uncomfortable it weren’t so _normal_ and, not for the first time, Emma was glad she’d stumbled back into this life.

“She looked it up,” David whispered conspiratorially before taking a far-too-large bite of bagel and, somehow, smiling at Emma. Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in disapproval, but it wasn’t a disagreement either and Emma wondered when she’d had the time.

Probably in between attacking major website editors with plans and making sure Killian Jones wasn’t actually trying to kidnap two kids from a summer program with the promise of ice cream on his lips.

Shit.

Killian Jones.

Emma needed to drink more coffee and get some food in her and a slightly more professional mindset. There were rules about that, right? Ethics or something. A reporter wasn’t supposed to date whoever he was writing about.

No, probably not. _Definitely not_. And she wasn’t thinking about dating Killian Jones or or a sentence that included both Killian Jones and lips or even really talking to Killian Jones – far too focused on the game and winning and keeping her personal life, decidedly, personal.

She could be a good story without the depressing history and vaguely troubled past.

_Definitely not_.

Primary fire, secondary fire, obliterate every enemy – and that stupid, annoying, asshole voice in the back of her brain. It would be fine. She probably wouldn’t really even notice him. For the entire goddamn day.

“I think she’s playing the game,” David muttered, pouring another cup of coffee and, God, he’d showered too. How had she slept through all of that?

“I’m thinking what the best way would be to take you out,” Emma lied and David didn’t look like he believed a single letter of it.

“I bought you baked goods. A plethora of baked goods.”  
  
“That was actually kind of nice,” she conceded. Her drink had gone cold. “God damn. Although there are a questionable number of cinnamon-raisin in there. What time did you have to get up to make that happen?”

David shrugged. Painfully early, then. “It’s an important day, Em,” he reasoned. “And maybe I just wanted cinnamon-raisin for the week.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“How come you don’t have to actually win to win?”   
  
“We’ve been over this twenty times already,” she sighed, but she kind of appreciated too. If Emma kept running the plan, the one that decidedly ignored Killian Jones and his far-too-blue eyes and nicknames and on-the-record questions, then she could stay focused on the goal. She could absolutely wreck – as Mary Margaret would say.

“Humor me.”  
  
She took a deep breath and Mary Margaret reached over her shoulder, tugging the mug out of her hand to fill it with scalding hot liquid. God, it was like being fifteen again. Emma was a better video game player now.

“It’s a qualifying tournament,” Emma started. “So there are sixteen teams today, from all over the world, who didn’t get the automatic bid. It’s because none of us have fancy, corporate sponsors and we’re some kind of Overwatch plebs in the eyes of the league, so, they put us in a different bracket and make us play each other.

The seeds coming into this were a total joke though. They, literally, just put our team names into a hat and that Zelena lady who’s in charge of everything picked out pieces of paper and that’s where we ended up.”

David snorted over the top of his mug and he’d mixed peanut butter and cream cheese on his cinnamon raisin bagel. Emma tried not to actually gag. “Ruby’s very mad about that,” he said. “She’s brought it up every single time I’ve talked to her in the last forty-eight hours.”  
  
“How many times are you talking to her in the last forty-eight hours?”   
  
“A couple,” he mumbled and it sounded a bit like an admission. Emma’s pulse accelerated and she was positive she was missing something. David’s nervous glance towards Mary Margaret all but confirmed it and they were talking about _her_. God.

“Yuh huh,” Emma repeated, eyebrows pulled low and frustration brewing in the pit of her stomach and she was fairly positive they were talking about that phone call she’d made on the other side of the plastic partition on Friday night.

She was going to kill her whole goddamn team.

“And what seed are you guys?” Mary Margaret asked quickly, trying to refocus the conversation and keep Emma from throwing things in the middle of her kitchen.

“We are fifth,” Emma answered and maybe she was as upset as Ruby was about this whole seeding debacle. Maybe Killian Jones, award-winning reporter with a history Emma was positive was also a _story_ , should write about that.

That, however, would require her to talk to him long enough to suggest story ideas.

What a mess.

“And playing?” David prompted. Emma rolled her eyes. They’d really gone over this twenty times already, had discussed it in detail in the back corner of Granny’s on Saturday night, Ruby’s voice rising with every sip of alcohol until she and Anna seemed to be having some kind of joint screaming match over seeding.

“Vivi’s Adventure,” Emma responded, dropping her head against Mary Margaret’s side and sighing softly when she felt fingers working their way through her hair. “It’s the dumbest name in the history of dumb names and that’s coming from someone who might actually have a lawsuit on her hands if we actually make it out of qualifying rounds.”  
  
“You can’t change your name,” Mary Margaret said. She was braiding Emma’s hair. And Emma didn’t move her head.

“I’d rather not get sued for four million dollars before I even get the chance to try and win four million dollars. That’s impractical.”

“But you made shirts,” David pointed out.

“Ruby made shirts. Or ordered shirts. No one asked her to do that.”  
  
“Are you even remotely surprised that she did that?”   
  
“About as surprised as you getting up insanely early to go get me bear claws from a bagel place that makes the best bear claws in the city.”   
  
David grinned at her, ducking his head to press a kiss on Emma’s temple and maybe being fifteen again wasn’t the worst thing in the entire world. “It’s only because we live a few blocks away,” he promised. “Any more than five blocks and I totally wouldn’t have done it.”

“No, then he would have called an Uber and woken up even earlier,” Mary Margaret mumbled.

Emma’s pulse sped up again, heart hammering against her ribs with something that felt like emotion and maybe sentiment and she couldn’t just start crying on Mary Margaret’s actual shoulder. That would have been weird.

Probably.

Mary Margaret wouldn’t have blinked.

She was, after all, used to that sort of thing. And David would have woken up at dawn to get Emma bear claws if he had to, if only to prove that she had people behind her and support in her corner and a slew of other athletic-based clichés that made her vision swim just a bit.

David hadn’t just gotten her to come into the house all those years ago. He’d gotten his mom to agree to Emma and everything that she came with – a mess of legal battles and paperwork and enrolling her in Storybrooke High that fall.

And she’d had her own room, across the hall from David, and Mary Margaret had helped her fill out a closet, the very first she’d ever owned, and the three of them spent the entire year together, the memories of those days still hanging in frames on the walls in Ruth’s house.

It had been good. It had been _perfect_ – some kind of storybook lifestyle for a town with an absurd name and Emma could never quite believe her luck.

So, naturally, she’d gone and ruined the whole thing.

She had a tendency to do that. And David graduated, got into the University of Maine and that was _hours_ away and Mary Margaret was gone as well, that perpetual smile and positivity that Emma had allowed herself to depend on in just a few, short months, limited to phone calls and text messages.

They promised they’d come back. They’d drive back down for weekends and Emma could come up and sleep on Mary Margaret’s floor, but Emma was _sure_ – it was all over. So she ran. Again.

She was an idiot.

Only David and Mary Margaret found her. Again. And again. Over and over, every single team she absolutely _fucked it all up_ , there they were, encouraging smiles on their faces and certainty in their stare and, usually, baked goods in their hands.

Shit, she’d totally started crying on Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“Em,” David said slowly, eyes wide and hand falling on her forearm. “Are you crying? God, you’re totally crying. What’s the matter?”  
  
Emma shook her head, some of the braid Mary Margaret had already finished falling apart in the process, but the evidence was on her cheeks and her slightly puffy eyes and she could hear her phone buzzing from her compound a few feet away.

“That’d be totally lame,” she mumbled, dragging her knuckles across her face.

“The lamest. Is it because I put peanut butter and cream cheese on my bagel?”  
  
“That’s totally it,” Emma agreed and her voice was still shaky and just a bit scratchy, but David didn’t push, just tugged her away from the edge of the counter and wrapped his arms around her tightly. His hand found the back of her head, cupping her hair as he mumbled something that might have been encouragements in her ear, but Emma couldn’t really think when he did that, the actual feel of self confidence enveloping her as soon as she pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck.

“Five seed’s a good underdog story,” David continued, leaving another kiss on the crown of her head. “Tell your reporter guy to lede with that.”  
  
“Not my guy,” Emma mumbled. There it was. She was, almost, surprised it had taken them that long to get there. David had absolutely been gossiping with Ruby. “And,” she added. “He’s the one who’s won awards, doesn’t seem like it’s my place to tell him how to write his story.”   
  
“Yeah, but it’s about you. He should take that into account.”   
  
“Are you trying to protect me from the big world of journalism, Detective?”   
  
David pulled back, face turning serious quicker than Emma expected and that shouldn’t have surprised her either. “Yes,” he said simply and Mary Margaret made some kind of noise of agreement in the back of her throat.

“M’s, this was your idea,” Emma said, glancing over her shoulder.   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “And I still think it’s a good idea. He really did seem excited about it when I saw him on Friday. Even if he was being kicked in the side.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“He was holding Roland. Or trying to, at least. I’ll tell you something though, Roland Locksley has never been more excited to have someone pick him up from summer camp than he was when Killian Jones showed up. He’s not nearly that enthusiastic about the assistant.”   
  
“You’ve lost me. And how old is this kid?”   
  
“Regina Mills’ assistant,” Mary Margaret explained. “She’s usually the one who gets the kids. Although Robin comes sometimes too. He’s nice. Better with the kids than the assistant. She always looks kind of stressed out.”   
  
“And did anyone mention why Killian Jones was picking up these kids? Or how he knows them enough to offer them ice cream?”   
  
“I don’t think you need to be well acquainted with kids to offer them ice cream,” David reasoned, one arm still slung over Emma’s shoulders as she tried to twist around and stare at Mary Margaret.

“That’s true,” Mary Margaret agreed. “But I don’t think that’s what was happening. He knew those kids. Like in a _part of the family_ kind of way. They had nicknames and everything. It was painfully adorable.”   
  
“Jeez, that’s just like a thing for him isn’t it?” Emma asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could even really consider them. Mary Margaret’s eyebrows practically jumped off her face.

“What?”  
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Emma Swan.”   
  
She growled or groaned or maybe wondered if she could get out of the conversation without having to talk about any of this. No such luck. “He’s just got this nickname thing,” Emma muttered. “When he talk.”   
  
“Right,” Mary Margaret said, smile tugging on the sides of her mouth. Emma’s phone was still buzzing. “And you know this because…”   
  
“I’ve had two conversations with him.”   
  
“No, of course. Two conversations. You talk to him since that second conversation?”

Emma narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together and ducking out from underneath David’s arm. “I’ve got to shower,” she said, already halfway towards the bathroom. “Ruby’s going to murder me if we’re late.”

It didn’t matter – Emma walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later, damp hair still wrapped in a towel, to find Ruby sitting cross-legged on the couch with a controller in her hand and a disgruntled David a few feet away from her.

“Why are you so bad at this?” she laughed, not moving her eyes away from the screen and David made some kind of impossible noise, trying to elbow her in the thigh.

“Why are you so good at this? And how do you keep getting all these bananas? Oh, shit, shit, _fuck_ , God, stop laughing, Lucas.”   
  
“I’m sorry, this is just hysterical. It’s like the game got better and suddenly you’re complete shit at MarioKart.” She dropped another banana behind her and David let out another string of curses as he skidded off the course again, throwing his head back towards the ceiling and damning Ruby to several different afterlives, including, what sounded like, the seventh circle of Hell.

“For betrayers and mutineers,” Emma intoned, not quite able to keep the laughter out of her voice when David actually chucked his controller at the ground. Mary Margaret didn’t even look surprised.

“Stop quoting things at me, Em,” he hissed. Ruby lapped him. “God, Lucas, seriously. Stop showing off. It’s just embarrassing.”  
  
“For you or me?” Ruby asked, swinging her legs back onto the floor and she’d already won. She took a step towards Emma, eyeing the shirt she’d begrudgingly put on, and grinning, confidence practically rolling off her in waves. “I told you the shirts were worth the money,” she said pointedly, tapping on the emblem they’d gotten Anna to draw nearly a month before. “And it’s absolutely embarrassing for you, Nolan. I know I’m good.”   
  
David sighed again, dropping down onto the floor and pulling one leg up until he looked like a Renaissance painting – of MarioKart 8 defeat. “We shouldn’t have bought the new one,” he mumbled. “I was better at the classic version.”   
  
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Hey, did you get Emma bear claws for good luck this morning? I’m starving.”   
  
“Stop stealing my baked goods,” Emma said, but Ruby was already in the kitchen and Mary Margaret was already pouring another cup of coffee and they were going to be, at least, twenty minutes late. It was going to take forever to get crosstown.

“Too late,” Ruby said, mumbling through a mouthful of bear claw. “Have we complained about the seeding for this qualifying thing yet this morning because I’d really like to complain about that again.”  
  
“Too late,” Emma repeated. Ruby sighed. “How come you’re here? I didn’t think you were coming here. Are the rest of them coming here?”   
  
Ruby shook her head, confusion flashing across her expression when she glanced towards Mary Margaret. Emma tried not to groan. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”  
  
“There’s a car outside.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Automobile. Vehicle. Motor car. A sweet set of wheels.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed loudly, the sound working its way across the entire apartment as Emma practically sprinted towards the window. Ruby was right. There was a car outside and a uniformed man leaning against the passenger’s side door, feet crossed at the ankles and a hat in his hand like he’d wandered straight off a movie set.

“What the hell is that?” Emma asked sharply, not sure why she was, suddenly, terrified by the answer.

“Did you not hear my sweet set of wheels explanation?” Ruby asked. “I can’t really come up with another synonym. You can ask your reporter when we get to the Theater. He’s probably got more. That’s his job, right?”  
  
Emma shook her head, mind muddled and thoughts moving slowly and she needed to dry her hair. And look at her phone. _Oh fuck_ , her phone. She moved again, actually running across the several hundred square feet of apartment and nearly knocking over the partition while Ruby mumbled something her breath at Mary Margaret.

She had six text messages and she’d never actually programed his number in her phone, but she recognized the 718 area code and her heart might have actually been in her throat.

**Good luck today, Swan.**

**Not that I think you’ll need it. You’re absolutely going to wreck the competition. God, that’s the lamest way to say that isn’t it?**

**Definitely lame.**

**True though. Even if that five-seed seems kind of absurd since your team actually has a pretty impressive win-loss record.**

**How did you end up a five seed? It doesn’t make any sense. This Vivi’s team hasn’t even won a competitive game yet. And they’re a four. This is just basic math. Even Singularity is garbage. And they’re the No. 1? You’ve got more wins than them. This is absurd.**

Emma bit her lip, suddenly aware of the smile on her face and the way her breath had caught in her throat, knees not quite as straight as they’d been a few minutes before. He might be more upset about the five-seed debacle than Ruby and David combined.

And Emma could nearly imagine what his voice sounded like, the way he tried to rush over the words when he started talking about something he _cared_ about and there was a sudden and distinct lack of oxygen in her compound at even the passing idea that he cared about her.

That was insane.

Impossible.

That was impossible. There were ethics involved. And one more text message.

**The car’s for you, by the way. Courtesy of Mills Media. And how shitty the MTA is this summer. Just figured it’d be easier.**

Was she still standing? She was. She might not have been breathing, but she was definitely still standing and somewhere in the realm of _swooning_ until she suddenly and quickly got very, very frustrated.

She didn’t need a car. She didn’t need text messages from a phone number she, admittedly, probably should have saved on Friday night. She could walk crosstown quicker than the car could drive there.

Ethics.

And a deep-rooted stubborn streak that was probably her undoing. Or something less dramatic.

“Em,” Ruby said, approaching cautiously and that might have been the strangest thing that had happened all day. “M’s wants to know if you want her to braid your hair so we can get out of here. We probably shouldn’t keep that fancy driver guy waiting. Seems like a dick move.”  
  
Emma hummed noncommittally in the back of her throat, stuffing her phone in her pocket. “We’re not taking the car,” she said and Ruby’s eyes widened. “That’s...how did he even get Mary Margaret’s address?”

“I have no idea. But, like, that’s a thing, right? Investigative journalism or whatever?”  
  
“Are we the investigation?”

“Eh,” Ruby wavered, teeth bared as she tilted her head slightly. “Maybe not we.”  
  
Emma sighed, any sense of swooning as deflated as the air mattress at her feet. “That was almost kind of heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

“I almost don’t care. You should have heard David’s _must protect Emma_ speech on Saturday night. You want to talk about heavy-handed, that was, like, the single most awkward conversation I’ve ever had and, once, Anna tried to tell me about how she nearly got engaged to a Tindr date the same night she met him.”

“What? God, I can’t imagine Elsa would be very into that idea.”  
  
“She wasn’t. There was, apparently, a fight if you can believe those two actually fought about anything in their lives and, just, trust me, it was weird and David is worried about you and these stories and he hasn’t told Mary Margaret about that and I’m not supposed to tell you either and Killian Jones blushed while holding a painfully adorable kid as soon as someone mentioned your name on Friday night.”   
  
“Were you not supposed to tell me that part either?” Emma asked archly, tugging her hair out of the towel.

“No, that’s painfully obvious. Everyone knows that.”

“Jeez. You are on a roll.”  
  
Ruby shrugged, but there was a tinge of disappointment in her gaze and Emma licked her lips. “We’re really not going to take the car?”   
  
“We’re really not going to take the car,” Emma said, the weight of her phone practically dragging her through the entire apartment building. “C’mon. Let’s go over strategy while M’s fixes my hair.”   
  
She did feel kind of bad about blowing off the driver – fancy hat clutched tightly in his right hand when Emma promised _they were fine with walking_ and Ruby grumbled under her breath about it for the entire thirteen block walk to the Playstation Theater.

Emma ate another bear claw.

And tried not to drop the two cups of coffee gripped tightly in her hands.

She heard her name on the other side of the block, Anna’s hair obvious even in a sea of professional video game players and spectators and frantic-looking league reps who, clearly, had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into. Emma waved, hoping that would, somehow, stop the screeching from the other side of 44th Street, but it only seemed to drive Anna forward even more and, suddenly, she was nearly a foot taller, held up by a pair of hands that looked vaguely familiar.

She was clinging to Will Scarlet’s side, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her waist while she balanced herself on his shoulder and waved at Emma like she was trying direct several planes. And Killian Jones was very obviously staring at his feet a few inches away, a pen stuck behind his ear and something that might have been a credential around his neck and two cameras hanging off his left arm.

Emma bit her lip. And tried not to focus on the obscene amount of sugar she’d already ingested that morning.

“We should have taken the car,” Ruby muttered again, dragging Emma with her across the street as soon as the light changed.

“Emma, Emma, Emma,” Anna chanted, pulling herself away from Will and grabbing Emma by both her shoulders. Killian’s eyes darted up, one side of his mouth ticking up when he saw she was holding coffee. “You are missing _everything._  There has already been trash talking and people screaming into NY1 cameras and Tink totally dated the guy who’s Singularity’s captain and she said…”

Anna paused for half a moment to take a breath and Emma allowed herself one, quick glance towards Killian Jones. God, he was unfairly attractive. That was making this far more difficult than it should have been. Anna was still talking, detailing how Tink knew some guy named Greg and how shitty he was at playing Overwatch and how they were totally going to _wreck_ and Emma barely heard any of it, lips dry again and both of her hands were burning from the somehow-still hot coffee.

Killian smiled at her, soft and maybe just a bit nervous and Emma tried to keep her expression neutral. It probably didn’t work if Anna’s continued exclamations were any indication. “Emma, are you ok?” she asked and Emma’s head darted up at the concern in her voice.

Elsa narrowed her eyes knowingly and Emma was struck with the rather sudden realization that they’d _all_ talked about this. God, there was probably a group text. David had probably started it.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised. “NY1 is really here?”  
  
“It’s apparently an event,” Elsa said, a smile on her face as she waved a hand at the scene in front of her.

That was, definitely, one word for it. There were people everywhere, some of them already lined up in front of the doors to the Theatre and even more pushing their way down the block, cups of Starbucks clutched tightly in their hands and they weren’t the only team with matching t-shirts. That didn’t make Emma feel any better about the matching t-shirts.

Killian still hadn’t said anything, but Will was taking pictures and Emma tried not to be completely overwhelmed by everything around her. So, naturally, her eyes darted towards Killian again and that stupid, confident smile on his face. “You didn’t take the car,” he said slowly, muttering the words quietly enough that it was a conversational miracle Emma even heard him.

Emma rocked on her heels, not sure how to respond to a statement and Ruby elbowed her in the side – hard. “Ow,” Emma hissed, but Ruby just glared at her. “What the hell?”  
  
“Here,” Ruby said, ignoring Emma completely and pushing something into Killian’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, just glanced down and the smile turned just a bit more genuine.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” he said. Ruby shrugged. Oh, God, it was a matching t-shirt.

“Please. Although seeing as we are an all-female team, this is absolutely not going to fit you and is now a gift for Henry wherever he is.”  
  
Emma nearly dropped the coffee again, stammering slightly and growling at Will when he pushed a camera lens in her face. “Wait, what? Henry like the one in Mary Margaret’s class?” Killian nodded. “What is going on right now?”   
  
As if on cue, a kid who couldn’t have possibly been more than twelve years old, skidded to a stop in front of them – both Will and Killian reaching out an arm to brace him. “Hook,” he shouted, head snapping up towards Killian. “You’ve got to come inside. There’s this whole table of merch and you can get a credit for download bundles to get new skins for characters and…”

His shoulders heaved when he ran out of oxygen, eyes wide when he realized there were two other people around now, but he smiled when he noticed Ruby. And Emma felt incredibly out of place. “Hey, Rubes,” Henry said brightly, ducking underneath Killian’s arm and only muttering slightly when she pulled him against her side.

“Hey, kid,” Ruby grinned. “You know you don’t need to get credits for that bundle. We’ll get you that in, like, a couple hours tops.”  
  
“Really?”   
  
Ruby nodded seriously, holding one hand out and Henry wrapped his pinky around her outstretched finger. “Let us wreck this qualifying tournament and then for sure.”   
  
“God, will everyone stop using the phrase _wreck_ in regards to this tournament,” Emma groaned, feeling half a dozen curious eyes land on her. Killian grinned.

“Who else is using that?” Ruby asked and Emma tried to brush her off, nodding towards Henry instead. “Oh, right, right, Henry, this is Emma Swan. She’s our team captain and the best goddamn Overwatch player in the country. She could get you your codes in a couple minutes.”  
  
Henry’s eyes lit up and Emma bit her lip tightly, hoping the blush she could feel on her cheeks wasn’t too obvious. “It’s really nice to meet you,” Emma said honestly. “You were in Mary Margaret, uh, Mrs. Nolan’s class last year, right?”

“Yeah,” Henry nodded. “She used to ask me about the game all the time last year. She, uh, she knew I played and I told her about my mom.”  
  
It was some kind of miracle Emma hadn’t dropped the coffee. She glanced back at Killian – as struck as she was, with wide eyes and a half-open mouth and Will was still taking pictures.   
  
“Thanks,” Emma mumbled, not sure what else to say. Henry’s smile got even bigger.

“We should probably go inside,” Elsa said. The line outside the door was starting to move and they were definitely running late already, but there was some semblance of a schedule and Emma really just wanted this first match to be over.

She nodded, more than willing to let Elsa direct them into the main room and a check-in table and, of course, she’d just fallen into step with Killian. She could nearly feel him next to her, something that felt a bit like heat and almost like electricity radiating off him and he took a deep breath before she interrupted him completely.

“This is for you,” Emma said brusquely, holding her hand up expectantly and his lips twitched again. That was distracting. “I...I should have started with that. Buried the lede or whatever.”  
  
He laughed softly, taking short, measured steps so he didn’t move in front of her and his fingers were warm when they brushed over Emma’s. “Was that a journalism joke, Swan?”   
  
“A pretty good one, I think. Mostly because I don’t know any other journalism terms to make jokes with.”   
  
“Nothing?” Killian asked skeptically. He needed to stop looking at her. And talking to her. And asking questions. There was already an Overwatch game happening on the main screen. “Byline? Deadline? Something about quotes?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, taking a sip of coffee. “Congratulations on proving your ability to just shout out keywords regarding your job. Although I’m not accepting something about quotes.”   
  
“Too broad, huh?”   
  
“Exactly that.”   
  
“Noted,” he grinned and he hummed softly when he _gulped_ his own coffee. “This is good.”   
  
“I’m not trying to poison you.”   
  
“Noted, again. And appreciated. If I ask you an actual question are you going to try and turn me to stone again?”   
  
Emma stopped walking, whoever was behind her nearly colliding with her back and she _did_ drop the coffee. It was about time. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, dropping down and one of her knees landed directly in a puddle of caffeine and two-percent milk.

Maybe this event wasn’t quite as much a disaster as Emma assumed – a person with a _League Official_ t-shirt on appearing beside her quickly and there was a mop and promises that it was fine and Emma found herself being pulled back up before she even realized Killian had moved.

God, his hand was warm.

“Come here, love,” he said softly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and tugging her away from the crowd. She followed him before she could come up with an argument, ducking behind the merch table Henry had been so excited about and it was, almost, quiet there.

“I’m fine,” Emma snapped, pulling her hand away quickly and wincing when it collided painfully with her side. He hadn’t even asked a question yet.

Killian nodded. “I’m not questioning that. Here,” he added, pushing his half-finished cup towards her. “You need the caffeine more than I do.”  
  
“Are you trying to tell me I look tired?”   
  
“No. I’m telling you that you’re the one who has to win an entire qualifying tournament today and that it only seems fair you to get at least some coffee out of the equation when, I’m assuming, you paid for it.”

Oh. She really was an asshole. And far too certain things were just going to go wrong by default. Mary Margaret would have some kind of hope speech perfectly prepared for this moment. Emma kind of wished she’d come with them.

“Not everything is some kind of calculated attack, Swan,” Killian added, ducking back into her eye line and smiling when she took the cup.

“What was your question?” she asked. His coffee didn’t have cinnamon in it. Damn.

“Why didn’t you take the car?”  
  
“Why did you send a car?”   
  
Killian shook his head, tongue pressed against the edge of his lip and Emma didn’t think she imagined the way he rocked towards her. “I asked first,” he said. “There are rules.”   
  
“I think you’re just making them up as you go along.”

“And I think you’re doing a very bad job of avoiding the question.”

She flashed her eyes up, but he didn’t back down, just lifted his eyebrows and stared straight at her, like he could read her mind or maybe like she was the _open book_ he promised she was. Emma sighed. “I’m perfectly capable of walking a couple of blocks.”   
  
“I’m not questioning that.”   
  
“You really need to be more specific then.”   
  
Killian tilted his head – and Emma tried to keep her shoulders straight and her spine in line and she couldn’t remember having ever been looked at like that, like he was interested and intrigued and like he wanted to know everything, on the record, with absolutely no intention of putting it on the internet.

“I’m not one to just...accept things,” Emma said slowly. Killian didn’t respond, just moved his eyebrows again and kept staring at her. No, she thought, waited. He was waiting for her. “Especially from people I don’t really know. Who should have no idea where to send town cars.”

“Ah,” he laughed, running a hand through his hair and twisting slightly so his left arm was pulled behind his back. “Yeah, that was bordering somewhere on stalking wasn’t it?”  
  
“How did you do it?”   
  
“The receptionist at Mills is actually some kind of secret coding and internet expert. And she was very willing to do me a favor if I got Gina to get her and her boyfriend a reservation at TAO on Saturday night.”   
  
“The receptionist?” Emma repeated and Killian made a significant face. “You got a receptionist to...what, hack into some sort of record and find M’s address?”   
  
“She’s not trying to be the receptionist apparently. It’s a very involved story. But she saved the website on Friday and kept Robin from actually pulling his hair out or having some kind of episode in the middle of Broadway. So, you know, Gina owed her.”   
  
“You keep saying all these names and I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Emma admitted, appreciating his smile a lot more than she should have. “Gina is Regina Mills, right?” Killian nodded. “And Robin is…”   
  
“Her husband.”   
  
“Which makes Henry…”   
  
“Their kid. One of two. Roland is seven and obsessed with chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream and being Henry.”   
  
Emma nodded in understanding, pieces of the puzzle, almost, starting to fit together. “And you know both of these kids well enough to pick them up from school, offer them ice cream in a not-creepy kind of way and then bring one of them with you on an assignment?”   
  
“Yes, yes and yes,” Killian answered. “Although Gina wasn’t happy about that last one. It’s apparently not very education-focused.”   
  
“It’s summer.”   
  
“My argument exactly, Swan.”   
  
She’d finished her coffee. Or his coffee. Emma wasn’t sure of the specifics anymore, trying not to linger on the fact that they’d somehow managed to share one cup of coffee that morning.

It felt like something important.

Emma turned her head, staring straight at him and maybe that was a mistake. Shit, his eyes were blue. He still had his arm twisted around behind him. “And you wanted to send me a town car to go thirteen blocks because…”

“It was a gesture of goodwill,” he grinned. “So you could get here easier.”  
  
“There wouldn’t be anywhere to park on 44th Street. How did Ruby know about it?”

“I have no idea.”  
  
He wasn’t lying – eyebrows pulled low and gaze intent and he _wanted_ her to believe him. She didn’t. Jeez.

“I feel like we’re both missing a pretty big part of this game,” Emma muttered, taking a step towards him and she was close enough that her toes nearly brushed up against his sneakers. She could have moved, could have pulled her hands up and rested them flat against his chest like she wanted to and pressed her lips against his and maybe she’d thought of that a questionable amount since she’d swallowed some of her pride on Friday night and called him.  

She didn’t do any of that.

Because Emma Swan never got in the car – metaphorically or otherwise. Not anymore.

“How did this happen, Swan?” Killian asked suddenly and she realized they’d been standing in silence, staring at each other like they were taking inventory for far too long.

Emma licked her lips quickly, tugging them back behind her teeth as she tried to regain her bearings. She could make out the sounds of the game behind her, catchphrases that had been playing on an endless loop in her brain since they’d decided to do this, and she tugged self consciously on her t-shirt.

“What?” she asked a bit breathlessly. Killian’s gaze shifted, dropping away from her eyes and, maybe, down towards her mouth, but then he blinked and it was gone as soon as it came, features stoic and professional and good, she could deal with that.

“On the record,” Killian said, a recorder held loosely in his right hand.

Oh. Well, yeah, no, that was ok. They had to do that, right? He had to ask questions and write stories and that was the deal. That was what Emma had begrudgingly agreed to when Mary Margaret announced the plan and Ruby promised it was _good for business_ like that even made sense in context, but they’d taken a team vote and Emma had been overruled and now she needed to answer questions.

On the record.

“Ask me an actual question,” Emma hissed, frustration back in her voice and there went flirting. If flirting had ever been on the table. Jeez.

“How did Emma Swan become the team captain of the only all-female pro Overwatch team in the league?” Killian asked. “Or, rather, how did you start playing video games?”  
  
“That’s a long story.”   
  
“I’ve got some time. And so do you. Your shitty five-seed matchup isn’t for another hour.”   
  
“Why do you know that?”   
  
“I can read, Swan. There was a schedule on the league site and something about streaming. You’re still not answering my question.”   
  
He shook the recorder slightly and Emma’s stomach flipped. She swallowed back the bundle of nerves in her throat, chewing on her lip as she tried to figure out the best way to answer. Killian nodded once, like he was agreeing to an idea he hadn’t voiced, and leaned towards Emma, half an inch away from her face and what was personal space when she could barely think?

“I’ll tell you what, love,” Killian said, low and intent and Emma could _feel_ it. “We’ll go one-for-one, huh? On the record back and forth. You answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. No matter what.”   
  
She hadn’t been expecting that. “Why?” Emma asked sharply. It was an accusation. And Killian knew it.   
  
“We both need this to work, Swan. You asked me about Boston and what led me back to New York, well, this is it. A story. A good one. So I need this to work and your team needs the publicity. It’s a win-win for both of us, we might as well be honest with each other.”   
  
“You have a very high opinion of this whole situation don’t you?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “I think we could make a very good team, Swan. It’s up to you whether or not that works.”   
  
Emma considered that for a few moments, scowling when she realized he was absolutely and infuriatingly right. Damn. On the record. “My brother,” she said. “He’s the reason I’m here.”   
  
“Give a guy a second to get his recorder out, Swan,” Killian grinned, hitting a button on the square of plastic in his hand. She rolled her eyes. “Ok, brother. I’m going to guess he’s the reason behind the NYPD shirt before?”   
  
“Why do you remember that?”   
  
“Perceptive. And a journalist. It’s the details, love. So you and your cop brother started playing video games when you were kids?”

“No,” Emma said and Killian did something absurd with his eyebrows. “Ruth bought him a knockoff XBox for Christmas one year and we spent the entire break playing. Turns out I’ve got pretty good hand-eye coordination.”  
  
“Did you wreck him, Swan?”

Her eyes were going to get stuck that way if she kept rolling them, but Emma was smiling again and they kept bouncing through moods in this conversation. It felt like playing the game. She’d clearly lost her mind.

“You were right before, you know, that’s totally lame,” Emma said. “But, yeah. Every single time. And even now. Between David and Mary Margaret I was fairly convinced I was the greatest player to ever walk the Earth, but they were just both painfully bad at Halo.”

“And that sparked the interest as a career?”  
  
Emma shook her head and that was what she’d been dreading. There wasn’t any way to explain _a year in jail and no high school degree_ and what talent did she have except the innate ability to kill her virtual enemies? Killian seemed to pick up on her concern, hand falling back on her arm and she shuddered at the touch.

When she’d gotten out of jail, she didn’t know where to go – didn’t have much more than a blanket with her name on it and the memories of everything blowing up in her face and Emma was barely making ends meet in Providence when David showed up at her apartment and told her enough was enough.

He found her. Again. And Emma had gone with him. Again.

So he took her to that sleepy little college town and got her a job at the coffee shop on campus and Emma kept playing, nights on the couch with David and Mary Margaret and, eventually, she came up with a plan.

She started making money. She almost forgot about _him_ and a time when she wasn’t certain and confident and _ready_ and the League just seemed like the next logical step.

Only that step had landed her in front of Killian Jones and his recorder and blue eyes and Emma needed a plausible story.   
  
“I’ve always wanted to kind of control my own life, I guess,” Emma started, mumbling over the words while she tried to keep her lip in between her teeth. “And I’ve been lucky that my brother and M’s have been super supportive of that. So they helped and played against me so I could get better and there were competitions all over the country that had big prize pools, bigger every year as games got more and more popular and less and less weird and, well, you know the rest. I’m camping out in their living room while I try to find my own place and win this whole, stupid League.”   
  
Killian hummed, hitting another button on the recorder and starting at her. Still. He kept doing that. She wished he wouldn’t. “Was that ok?” Emma asked. “On the record?”   
  
“Of course, Swan. It’s a good start.”   
  
“A start?”   
  
“Ah, well, that’s my angle I guess,” he explained. “We’d background everyone on the team, maybe highlight how shitty this whole seeding thing was and talk a little bit about what comes next. Oh and maybe the thing in Philadelphia.”   
  
“You know about that too?”   
  
He quirked an eyebrow at her, smirk settling onto his face with practiced ease and they definitely had to play soon. It felt like they’d been standing in that corner for several lifetimes. “You’re very surprised by reading comprehension, love,” Killian laughed.

“Just impressed by your dedication to research.”  
  
“Maybe not such a bad journalist, after all. I almost understand the game.”

“Color me impressed,” Emma smiled, eyes wide and that smirk was _stupid_. She wanted to kiss it off. She wanted to absolutely _wreck_ Vivi’s Adventure in the first round. “You know, maybe, we could try and build on that knowledge today? If you’ve got...questions or something.”   
  
“Are you offering to explain the video game to me, Swan? Henry’s been trying to do that for two weeks already.”   
  
“And how that’s going for you?”   
  
“Eh, he’s very frustrated. Far more preoccupied with getting that credit than anything I could offer him today.”   
  
“Ah, well, there’s no ice cream involved.”   
  
Killian smiled and Emma’s heart dropped into her stomach or maybe into her feet or possibly exploded out of her chest. “Always a disappointment, of course,” he muttered, stuffing his recorder back into his pocket and leaning towards her again.

He didn’t touch her arm.

He did, however, move his left hand and Emma’s eyes caught on a flash of color and a name and the question hung in the minimal amount of air between them as soon as she closed her mouth. “Who’s Milah?” she asked. “On the tattoo.”  
  
And just like that, it was over. The whole scene changed and Emma’d been _absolutely wrecked_ by an assailant she didn’t see and wasn’t prepared for, thrown back to the start of some metaphorical level without a single weapon to her name.

The corner suddenly felt very small and Killian couldn't seem to back up quick enough, eyes dark and lips pressed together tightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone from a long time ago,” he bit out, venom in every single letter. “On the record.”

Emma nodded, quick jerks of her neck that sent a shockwave of pain and frustration down her spine. That’s what she got for asking questions.

“Hey, uh, guys,” Elsa said, appearing in the corner with a nervous look on her face. “We’ve got to go play the game. Ruby’s half a second away from shutting down the whole tournament to try and find you, Em.”  
  
“Of course she is,” Emma mumbled. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, certain it hadn’t worked as soon as she looked at Elsa. “Ok, we’re coming.”

She turned back to Killian – shoulders tight with the tension he was holding and his thumb pressed into his left forearm. “You, uh, want to watch a game in action?” Emma asked and he hummed softly, gaze still heavy on her face.

“Yeah, Swan,” he said. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you think it’s always this loud?” Killian asked, glancing down at a clearly amused Henry who, at some point, had actually changed into a Widow’s Wail t-shirt.

Henry rolled his eyes, a smile dancing on the corners of his lips. “Are you going to act like an old person the whole time you write these stories?”  
  
“Wow, just jumping right over the next couple of years and straight into that teenage angst, huh? And it’s painfully loud in here.”  
_  
Pass into the iris!_

Killian winced as they walked by another enormous screen and another character he didn’t totally understand, screaming a saying he was positive was going to hear on loop for, at least, the next thirty-six hours. Henry wasn’t even trying to hide his laughter.

And if Killian wasn’t already so goddamn frustrated, he probably would have laughed at himself too. He had absolutely no idea what he’d gotten himself into.

God.

He’d actually touched her – reached out his hand, more than once, and wrapped his fingers around Emma Swan and she was impossibly cold, even in the middle of the goddamn Playstation Theatre with several hundred people crammed into a tiny space and a million and two video game stereotypes practically flying through the air.

Holy shit, she’d asked about Milah.

And if he was playing the stupid Overwatch catch phrases on a loop in his head for the foreseeable future, then Killian was fairly positive he’d never be able to get the look of Emma’s face after he completely shut down out of his mind.

Ever.

It was probably branded there – with catchphrases and Henry’s laughter and how he could actually wrap his entire hand around her wrist.

 _Get a grip, Jones_.

Except the opposite of that. The exact opposite of that. Because there were rules and lines and _ethics_ and sending a fucking towncar to Turtle Bay was like pole vaulting right over all of those things.

Ariel thought he’d gone insane. She didn’t say that, but he could _hear_ it in the tone of her voice, the genuine surprise and confusion when he’d called at an almost questionably late time  and he’d had too much to drink in Will’s shitty apartment and mocked how small it was and, well, it had made sense at the time.

God, fucking damn.

He’d almost answered Emma. Milah was someone from a long time ago and that was that. There was no more to the story – just like there was absolutely no more to the story about how Emma Swan played video games with her brother and who Ruth was and why she was, clearly, so determined to avoid any of it.

This was an unqualified disaster. And he never got any coffee.

“Hook, are you even listening to me?” Henry asked, stopping suddenly in front of another screen and a line of chairs and keyboards and headsets and Killian could just make out the color of Emma’s hair at the far end of the row. He absolutely had not been listening.

“Yeah,” he lied and Henry didn’t look convinced.

“Ok, explain the payload rules to me then.”  
  
Killian pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, trying to look the part of _responsible adult_ and that didn’t really work well when it was so blatantly obvious he’d been lying to an eleven year old.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Henry grinned, a look that was so Regina, she probably should have had it patented.

He sighed softly, reaching out his right hand to rest on Henry’s shoulders and doing his best to keep his left arm trained to his side. And if Henry noticed that, he didn’t say anything, just kept smiling and waited for Killian to start asking questions.

Again.

He’d asked more questions about this stupid game in the last two weeks than he’d done the entire time he was in New Orleans.

“Go ahead,” Henry prompted, rolling his shoulder so he could actually elbow Killian in the side.

“What?”  
  
“You’ve got that question face on.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Killian said, twisting his eyebrows and someone was actually _announcing_ this, trying to call the match to order or whatever the technical term for it was. He should probably ask about that too. “What exactly is a question face?”  
  
“It’s that thing you do when you’re confused. You kind of….like pull your eyebrows in and your lips get really narrow.”  
  
“That’s sounds awful.”  
  
Henry shrugged. “You do it, though. And you’re doing it now.”  
  
“Aren’t you eleven?” Killian asked and Henry shrugged again, but with the addition of a vaguely sarcastic smile and _that_ was totally Robin. This was a very strange day. “Aren’t you supposed to be respecting your elders or something?”  
  
“I’m not disrespecting you, Hook,” Henry reasoned. “I’m trying to help you. You can’t impress that lady if you don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
If he did have a question face it suddenly became _almost pissed off_ face and Henry actually took a step back, eyes wide and slightly cautious and they’d started the match. He could hear even more catchphrases.

 _No one can hide from my sight_.

“Is that not what’s happening?” Henry asked softly, suddenly far more interested in the slightly disgusting carpet under their feet.

Killian took a deep breath and he really needed to do his job, but he’d brought Henry with him to an event and he didn’t understand the game anyway. He leaned forward, hand falling on Henry’s shoulder again and he squeezed tightly.

Henry might have smiled.

“Hey,” Killian muttered. “It’s ok, but that’s not what’s happening here. That can’t happen here.”

Oh, well, shit. He hadn’t meant to add a qualifier – even if it was true. Henry’s eyes darted up and he was far too perceptive for his own good. And Killian, had a very strong suspicion, was very good at eavesdropping on his parent’s conversations this weekend.

“What did you hear, kid?” Killian asked, squeezing his hand again.

“Nothing,” Henry mumbled. He shuffled his feet, head on a swivel as he tried to avoid Killian’s stare and watch the game and, likely, figure out where the food was. “I mean, something, but it’s not a big deal. I was…”  
  
“Supposed to be asleep.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured. Alright, well, what was it then?”

Henry wavered again, clicking his tongue and grimacing like he was actually in pain. Ruby shouted something a few feet away, barking out orders and Emma might have actually growled in response, while Anna laughed and Will kept taking pictures.

Killian smiled – something he hoped was encouraging and _adult_ and that wasn’t really how it worked for him and Henry. He wasn’t the pinnacle of responsibility and good choices. He was text messages and quick visits on major holidays when he could get time off and even Will was more responsible than he was.

Will had an apartment. And a questionable amount of incredibly shitty rum.

Killian took another deep breath, shoulders actually moving with the force of it until his lungs felt like they would burst with the amount of oxygen he was trying to pull in. “You can talk to me, you know,” he said slowly, ducking his head into Henry’s eye line and trying not to wince when he saw the kid’s eyebrows practically fly off his forehead.

“You’re going to be mad.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Mom and Robin were talking.”  
  
“Yeah, I gathered that,” Killian smiled, eyes flashing back up when Emma started screaming a string of trash talk that was close to impressive and just a bit astonishing. There were a lot of curses involved.

Henry laughed loudly, eyes wide as his whole body shook and Killian tightened his hold on his shoulder. “I get it now,” he breathed, barely able to get the words out in between actually guffaws.

“Get what?”  
  
“Why you like her.”  
_  
Jeez_.

“I don’t,” Killian argued, but that’s all it was. And Henry knew it. He was eleven years old and he knew it was the biggest lie Killian had said since he’d come to New York and two weeks before he’d promised Regina he was certain Liam wouldn't have minded him staying in a hotel uptown.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“What were your mom and Robin talking about?”  
  
“How much you like her.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“I get it,” Henry said again, bobbing on his toes as he tried to watch two things at once. It only took a few seconds for the game to win out, twisting away from Killian completely to stare at the screen and whatever it was Emma’s team was doing. It seemed good. The cursing seemed celebratory now.

Someone on the other team groaned loudly, ripping off his headset and throwing it on the ground with a loud crash. Ruby practically cackled at him.

“What just happened?” Killian asked, taking a step back towards Henry and ignoring the knowing look on the kid’s face.

“I knew you had questions.”

“I’m going to assume they won?”

“This round.”  
  
“How many rounds are there?”  
  
Henry gave him an exasperated look and maybe, somewhere in between reading schedules and sitting on Will’s incredibly uncomfortable couch and getting receptionists to break into fancy Manhattan school systems, he should have actually watched some of the game.  

“Just explain the rules to me kid,” Killian said evenly. “Leave the judgmental looks to your mom and whatever conversation you weren’t supposed to be listening to.”  
  
“Are you going to tell my mom about that?”

“You haven’t actually told me anything. There’s not anything to tell.”  
  
“They were talking about you,” Henry mumbled, trying to make out the screen over the crowd that had gathered around them. “And Emma. And why you’re still staying in that hotel uptown.”

Killian hummed – not entirely surprised by any of this, but frustrated all the same. And he should really move out of that hotel. He was going to go bankrupt soon. That would, however, require him to do something and maybe be proactive and he was doing just fine in _wallowing_ at the moment.

God, Liam would kill him.

“Robin thinks you’re going to ask her out,” Henry continued. He was jumping now. And they’d started another game. Round? It was definitely a round. Killian might actually be getting the hang of this.

“No,” Killian said, well aware that it wasn’t a question and this wasn’t really a conversation he should be having with an eleven-year-old. Or anyone.

There were rules. Ethics. Fuck.

“No,” Henry repeated. He did not sound like an eleven-year-old. Killian had lost complete control of this conversation. Maybe he should only be allowed to talk to Roland. He could handle a seven-year-old.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Emma _whooped_ , left hand thrown into the air and it looked like another celebration. “Take that, asshole,” she shouted, drawing another string of insults from the headset-throwing guy and she just flashed him a grin. Killian’s breath caught. Audibly.

And Henry looked far too much like Regina for complete comfort.

“No,” Killian said again. “Is that really what they were talking about?”  
  
Henry shrugged, but he was barely paying attention anymore, trying to use Killian as leverage as the audience continued to grow and Emma continued yelling strategy and curses and the smile didn’t fall off her face once.

She was good. Really good. And the entire goddamn theatre could tell.

“They’re totally dominating,” Henry said suddenly and he sounded impressed. Killian lifted his eyebrows. He had no idea what was going on, but Emma’s smile seemed genuine and the headset-throwing guy looked close to furious and that probably meant they were winning.

“Yeah?” he asked. Henry nodded again.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “They’re uh...well, they’re playing a kind of hardcore version of the game, I guess, but Wail’s absolutely wrecking. They won that first match in, like, two minutes. I’ve never seen anybody play like that.”  
  
“And that’s good.”  
  
Henry rolled his eyes –  _obviously_ practically radiating off him. “Yeah, that’s good. The point is to win as quickly as possible. If you’re playing for a long time, you’re probably losing.”  
  
That...made sense. Henry smiled at him, clearly understanding that Killian was, almost, understanding how this all worked. “They’re playing a Hybrid version of the map,” Henry continued, nodding back towards the screen and the characters on it. “Basically it’s taking the two other modes and smashing them together. So, uh, I don’t know how they decided who was attack and defense, but Wail’s playing attack now and they’re moving really, really good.”  
  
“Well,” Killian corrected automatically and Henry actually stuck his tongue out, making some sort of disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

“Whatever. They’re really good and that’s why that guy is so mad. Because his team’s playing defense and they’re not doing a good job. Emma,” Henry nodded towards the far end of the row and Killian tried to keep his breathing level, “keeps breaking through. She’s got a ton of points.”  
  
Killian frowned. He was back to not understanding. This was infuriating. “And that’s the...point?”

“Yeah,” Henry scoffed. “That’s definitely the point.”  
  
He nodded, humming softly and crouching out of habit as soon as Henry tried to actually climb up his side in order to see. Henry mumbled a quiet _thanks_ , but Killian barely heard him – attention far too focused on the screen and the characters and the catchphrases.

And Emma.

She looked...intent. There wasn’t another word for it. She was hunched over slightly, fingers flying across a keyboard and clicking quickly on a mouse and, even from a few feet away, Killian could make out how narrow her eyes were and her tongue kept darting in between her lips.

She muttered something in Ruby’s direction, something that sounded like _payload_ and _Doomfist’s gauntlet_ and none of it really made much sense, but that wasn’t the story.

The story was everything else. The story was the way she shifted slightly in her seat when she started actually firing on her enemies and how her eyes darted towards Belle when she did something right and the way she shook her head when that one piece of hair fell across her forehead.

Well, maybe not that one.

“So they’re not always on offense then?” Killian asked, trying to redirect the conversation and his own thoughts. Henry groaned.

“No,” he sighed. “That doesn’t even make any sense. And it’s attack, not offense.”  
  
“Right, right. So you’re saying that’s a no, then, huh?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“This is getting confusing.”  
  
Henry laughed, dropping back onto his feet when one of the Vivi’s players actually knocked over his chair in frustration. “They won,” Henry said. “Three out of five. And maybe you should ask Emma how they figured out the attack and defense thing. Seems like a good way to start talking. Or something.”  
  
He rolled his eyes and Henry didn’t move a muscle, just stared at him calmly, an almost jarring mix of Robin and Regina and certainty that made the hair on the back of Killian’s neck stand up. “You’re way too young for us to be having this conversation,” Killian said, a deflection of the highest order.

“I’m eleven.”  
  
“Yeah, that is way too young. How long were you eavesdropping before?”

“This morning, you mean?”  
  
That caught Killian short. He didn’t think it’d be this morning. There were more important things for two very important people to discuss than his potential _whatever_ with the subject of a year-long string of feature stories that would, likely, decide all of their careers. Right? Absolutely.

He was going to yell at Robin. And, maybe, say something to Regina. She’d probably laugh in his face.

“Whenever,” Killian muttered distractedly and they had another break before the next round and he should probably know who Wail was going to play. This was going to be the longest day ever.

“Not that long,” Henry promised. “I was hungry. They were in the kitchen. Talking about you. And Uncle Will. And what Uncle Will told Robin.”  
  
Killian groaned loudly, running a suddenly exhausted hand over his face. This was a disaster. He still had no idea what a payload was.

“Hook,” Henry pressed, but his voice was cautious and lacking just a bit of that Regina-like force and Killian felt like a _complete_ ass. “Are you ok?”  
  
He nodded slowly, hoping his silence would give way for the lie it absolutely was, but he barely had time to consider any of that before there were people running towards them and smiles on faces and Anna screaming something in his face.

“Did you see that?” Anna yelled, face flushed and eyes bright and it didn’t matter whether he had or not. She was going to make sure they relived every single moment.

“Yeah,” Killian said. “And almost understood most of it.”  
  
Henry clicked his tongue, his quiet _ehhh_ not quite as endearing as it would have been if Killian wasn’t positive he was fighting off some kind of complete mental breakdown in the middle of the Playstation Theatre.

Anna deflated slightly – God he was a _bastard_ – but Belle shot him an encouraging smile and Ruby had her arm around Emma’s shoulders, tugging her towards the group with an enthusiasm that was just a bit jarring.

Will was still taking pictures.

“We absolutely wrecked,” Ruby announced, making a face at the camera lens pointed towards her.

It was like watching a team win the goddamn Super Bowl or the Stanley Cup or something equally intense and, all things considered, he probably should have been asking questions or recording something and he worked for a website, they’d probably want video, but Killian was on some kind of _bad at his job_ streak and he was far too distracted by the flash of excitement in Emma’s eyes to consider any of the things he should have been doing.

“Congratulations,” Killian muttered, barely even audible over the din of the crowd and the combined force of Ruby and Anna. Emma heard him.

And maybe smiled.

Her lips twitched slightly, one end quirking up as her eyes flashed towards him and he pressed his hand into his thigh so he wouldn’t do something insane like reach out and push that one, stupid piece of hair back behind her ear.

“They weren’t very good,” she said.

Killian shook his head. “You’re selling yourself short, Swan. From what I’ve been told, you guys were brilliant.”  
  
Her eyebrows shot up and it was definitely a smile now. That felt like a win its own right. “Oh yeah?” she asked. “And where exactly are you hearing such generous rumors?”  
  
“I’ve got a source.”  
  
“A journalism joke?”  
  
“A journalism fact.” Killian nodded towards Henry, already discussing strategy and the next team with Ruby and Anna. “He seems to think you’re the best team that’s ever played the game. Something about how he’s never seen anyone score as many points as you have. That was mentioned several times.”  
  
“Generous.”  
  
“A fact.”  
  
“You don’t even know how to play the game,” Emma accused, but there was something that felt like hope on the edge of her voice and he’d moved back into her space before he even realized he’d taken a single step.

“That’s true,” Killian agreed. “But you were shouting orders very loudly, Swan. I’m nothing if not perceptive. And good at picking up on facts. Plus, you know, the game’s over. And you won, so that’s got to mean something.”  
  
She shook her head slowly, tugging her lip between her teeth and moved her hand, a quick, jerky motion that she couldn’t seem to decide on. It dropped back to her side before she’d really done anything and Killian tried not to be too disappointed at that.

Rules.

Ethics.

That _line_ or whatever the cliché was.

God, he desperately wanted to ask her out.

“Charmer,” Emma mumbled, but there was still a smile on her face and they weren’t in the corner of the Theatre.

“We’ve been over that, love. And not this time. Just facts.”

He couldn’t quite understand what she was doing with her face – a mix between surprise and confusion and something that looked like _complete_ disbelief and, not for the first time, Killian wondered what exactly happened that made Emma Swan so certain there was an angle to all of this.

There was – just not in the way she was thinking.

“See, that’s charming,” she continued, pulling her eyes back up towards his. Killian tried not to blink. “It’s not going to work.”  
  
“What isn’t?”  
  
“I’m not going to just start spilling my guts to you because you keep using nicknames and your adorable relationship with the kids of powerful people to try and sway me.”  
  
Oh. Oh, well, shit. She thought he was a complete asshole then. That was disappointing.

“That’s not what’s happening right now,” Killian said. Emma shrugged. “And I don’t want you to spill your guts anywhere. You already dropped your coffee, that seems like we’ve made enough of a mess already, don’t you think?”  
  
She blinked, rolling her shoulders back and tugging her hair over the front of her shirt. That one piece was still hanging in front of her face. “I wasn’t talking literally,” she hissed, leaning forward until she was half an inch away from his face and Killian had to press his fingernails into his palm so he didn’t move.

The line just got a bit blurrier.

“I realize that,” he said.

“Didn’t seem like it.”  
  
“What is happening right now? Because we’re jumping around so quickly I’m fairly positive one of us is going to get whiplash. That can’t be good for our respective necks.”  
  
“You need to stop talking in riddles.”  
  
Killian sighed, the force of it actually _hurting_ as he let go of some of the tension that had taken up residence in between his shoulder blades. He crossed his arms tightly, twisting up the fabric of his shirt underneath him and Emma’s eyes dropped down, expression shifting again when her gaze landed on the piece of plastic stuck onto the end of his arm.

She stiffened slightly, nerves rolling off her in waves and he tried to hold his ground, to ignore the quiet mumblings in the back of his mind and the promises that it wasn’t _enough_ , couldn’t possibly be _enough_ and his neck hurt.

Whiplash.

“There are no riddles, Swan,” Killian said, trying to keep his voice even. She still hadn’t looked away from his arm. “There is the story and the job. And I realize you didn’t want this, you’ve made that blatantly obvious, but, quite frankly, I don’t care.”  
  
Emma’s head jerked back up, eyes wide and just on the wrong side of angry. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I can’t make you talk to me,” he continued. “But I’ve got to get something and I’m going to write something and it’s going to be good. I wasn’t lying before. I’ll be honest with you, if you’ll do me the same courtesy.”  
  
“That’s what this is? Being courteous to each other?”  
  
“I don’t see why it can’t be.”  
  
“You don’t know how to play the game,” Emma said. “You have no idea why we just won.”  
  
“That’s true. But I really don’t think that’s going to make much of a difference. I don’t know how to operate a drug ring or stage a homicide and that didn’t stop me before.”  
  
Emma scoffed, but her lips moved again and she took a deep breath, staring at him with something that didn’t feel like pure, unadulterated hate. “You don’t have to prove that you’re not a homicidal maniac,” she muttered.

“Eh,” he objected quietly, twisting his eyebrows and maybe trying to smirk at her and he knew it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try.

He wanted to write about this team.

He wanted to tell a story and care about something and not just hit a word count because he’d been allotted a certain amount of ink.

He wanted to do something _good_. God, he hated that word now.

“I don’t think you’re a homicidal maniac,” Emma said. “Or a drug lord or whatever.”  
  
“That’s good to know.”

Emma licked her lips again, breathing heavily and, if asked, twenty-two years in the future or five minutes later, Killian would have sworn he didn’t see her move. He just felt – her palm pressed flat against his chest and her hands were still impossibly cold, the feel of them sinking through his shirt and maybe into the very middle of him and that was _crazy_ , but his neck still ached from imaginary whiplash and he’d lost control of the day entirely.

“I really didn’t want to do this,” she said softly, keeping her hand trained on him and his right hand tingled, every single nerve ending his brain practically _begging_ him to _touch her_. He didn’t move. He tried not to breathe.

“Yeah, I’m beginning to understand that,” Killian said. They were still in the middle of the main floor. He had interviews to do and maybe Ruby would volunteer to be the first feature story as long as she also promised not to kill him when they started talking.

“It’s a control thing.”  
  
“I get that.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
Killian nodded. “I just got fired, Swan. It was a long time at one job, especially for me. That’s the longest I’d been anywhere since...well, a long time. And they just pulled that. Got rid of a whole section of the staff, handed us a buyout check and told us to get out. I understand wanting to grab back a bit of control.”  
  
He could see the muscles in her throat move when she swallowed, lips pressed together tightly as she nodded. “Since?” Emma repeated and Killian felt his eyes close in defeat. He hadn’t meant to talk that long.

And he’d promised honesty.

No time like the present. Or something.

“Since I lived in New York,” he said.

“New York?”  
  
“Yeah. You knew that, though. Born and bred or something that doesn’t sound quite that lame.”  
  
“That seems to be a trend for you,” Emma laughed. She still hadn’t moved her hand. It almost wasn’t cold. “The calling things lame. That’s the second time you’ve done it today.”  
  
“And that’s the second time you’ve referenced text messages you were ignoring.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but they’d fallen back into banter and maybe something that felt like flirting and that line was all but gone at this point. “Yeah, well, you didn’t need to send a car.”  
  
“We’re repeating ourselves now.”  
  
“Maybe that’s a sign we should stop talking.”  
  
His heart did something medically impossible at that, slowing down or possibly shrinking, and Emma moved her hand, dragging it towards his arm and his shoulder and this was dangerous territory. This was _terrifying_ territory.

“I do have one question for you though,” Killian said. Emma smiled.

“Yeah?”  
  
“How’d they decide who was attacking and who was defending?”  
  
“Oh,” Emma breathed, eyes going wide for half a moment. “That’s really your question?”  
  
“Is that surprising?”  
  
“A little,” she admitted. “I just...that’s the game.”  
  
“I’m aware, Swan. I don’t understand how the game works, but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to stay ignorant on purpose. I’m actually driving Henry insane with my questions though, so I figured I’d try a different route.”  
  
“Source.”  
  
“See,” Killian said and this was definitely flirting. “You’re chock-full of journalism terms, love.”  
  
Ah, well, damn. He’d blame it on _comfort_ or _ease_ or maybe the sway of whatever banter they’d fallen into and he’d give into several hours of whiplash-induced neck pain if Emma kept smiling at him like that while he kept muttering nicknames and endearments like that was a thing they could be doing.

He hoped Will wasn’t listening to any of this.

He probably was. He was probably taking notes. Robin probably gave him the pen.

“I’m almost impressed by your dedication to the job,” Emma said, finally pushing that strand of hair back behind her ear.

“That’s absolutely what it is.”  
  
He needed to stop talking.

Emma stared at him, eyebrows pulled low and she looked almost frustrated when she realized she couldn't read his mind. “As with most of the decisions so far in this League there was, apparently, some kind of drawing before the match started. Anna thinks she’s good luck because she drew for us and we got attack which, I guess is easier.”  
  
“Do you not think so?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Eh…”  
  
“I didn’t,” Emma argued, but it didn’t hold much weight. “Well, don’t tell Anna that I didn’t say what I absolutely didn’t say.”  
  
“You’re confusing double negatives there, love. You just said not to tell Anna what you’re saying. Or something like that.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you understand double negatives? I thought you were all fancy words-man.”  
  
“That’s the worst superhero name I’ve ever heard in my life.”  
  
“I never said superhero either,” Emma said and he’d probably think about the sound of her laughter for a questionable amount of time that night. And, possibly, for the rest of his life.

Definitely flirting.

“Although,” she added, smiling softly at him and her hair had fallen out again. “Maybe if you get us some hits, I’ll reconsider it. Make sure you mention how shitty the name-drawing thing is.”  
  
Killian nodded, ignoring every muscle in his body and the absolutely absurd desire to do...something. Anything. Maybe pull her back into that corner and kiss her until she couldn’t see straight. Or he couldn’t see straight. He wasn’t going to be specific. “I can do that,” he said instead and that was probably a safer response.

“Do I get my follow-up then?” Emma asked.

“What?”  
  
“Weren’t those the rules? You get a question and I get a question and we keep going back and forth until the end of time?”  
  
“Sounds a little macabre.”  
  
“Look who’s dodging questions now.”  
  
“Ask your question, Swan.”  
  
She nodded and he saw a flash of amusement on her face. It felt like a look behind some sort of curtain or through a window and he was drowning in metaphors and clichés. Regina would get rid of his very fancy office if he started to write that crap.

“How long did you live in New York?” Emma asked, a genuine interest in her voice that did something stupid to his ability to remain upright.

“Twenty-two years,” Killian answered automatically.

“Long time.”  
  
“It didn’t feel like it.”  
  
Emma tilted her head and he need to _stop talking_. She opened her mouth again, a look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite name, but might have actually been concern and, naturally, it was time to play the goddamn game again.

“You guys ready?” Belle asked brightly, oblivious to whatever might have been happening a few inches away from her.

Emma sighed. “For?”

“The next round?”  
  
“Oh, right, right, uh, who are we playing?”  
  
“Wizards Overwatch,” Belle said and she couldn’t quite keep a straight face. Killian laughed under his breath, drawing a quick glance from Emma.

“That’s just bad, Swan. That’s a painfully bad name. Some might go so far as to suggest that name is lame.”  
  
She shook her head slowly and it was absolutely amusement in her eyes. Maybe this wasn’t bad. Maybe they could just be...friends? He’d never been friends with a source. Most of his sources were dead, that’s why.

“You need to expand your vocabulary,” she muttered. “Although that is a painfully bad name. And totally falling right into the stereotype.”  
  
“Well,” Ruby said, joining the conversation with a clipped tone. “This is all absolutely adorable, but we really do have another round to win. And, you’re welcome, by the way, Jones.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “For…”

“Getting Henry that upgrade. As promised.” God, he’d absolutely forgotten Henry was standing next to him – because, apparently, he hadn’t been. He was the worst adult supervision in the history of the world. Ruby smiled, resting her chin on Belle’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, I knew it. He didn’t mind. He got his upgrade. He didn’t care about being ignored.”  
  
“That’s awfully judgmental of you.”  
  
“Reporting the facts.”  
  
“Alright,” Emma sighed, kicking at Ruby’s ankles with a familiarity that Killian should probably ask about again. “C’mon. We’ve got wizards to defeat.”  
  
They did beat the wizards – giving up one round, which seemed to personally offend Emma, but it didn’t take long for them to win the next two and she’d been right, they were absolutely better at playing defense. Killian tried not to read too much into that.

They swept Team esports Cyberathletes, which they all, collectively, decided was an even worse name than one that involved wizards.

And they had nearly an hour before meeting Team Singularity in the final – streamed on, what the League website promised was, several _different_ platforms for an all-inclusive viewing experience. It was just enough time to get coffee from the Starbucks in Shubert Alley.

“I feel like I should actually ask how you take your coffee this time,” Emma said, swinging open the door and glancing at him over her shoulder.

She was happy.

They were winning – and _wrecking_ , as the saying went – and Killian wasn’t sure what his neck was doing, but if this was where he landed after the whiplash, he wasn’t going to argue it.

“You did alright before, Swan,” Killian said, following her into the packed space. There were more people in those few feet of Starbucks than had been in the entire Theatre, he was convinced, and the poor girl behind the register looked like she was one order away from actual tears.

“I’m trying to win though,” Emma argued. “Number one seed or whatever. I’m not just looking for alright. I want top-notch coffee orders.”  
  
He laughed softly, running his hand through his hair and it felt like something a lot bigger than coffee. It felt like an olive branch. More metaphors. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a coffee snob, Swan,” Killian muttered, moving next to her and the line was out onto the block now.

“Really? Any reason?”  
  
“Is this another question?”  
  
“Is that a prerequisite?”  
  
Killian’s jaw was starting to cramp and it would be a miracle if he got out of Midtown with his entire body in tact by the end of the night. “Not necessarily,” he said. “More just curiosity. If I’m set to bare my coffee-obsessed soul, then I’d like to get something out of it.”  
  
“Jeez, way to make the conversation heavy, Killian.” He nearly tripped over his own feet. That probably wouldn’t help his body’s non-injured state. “What?” Emma asked cautiously, hand darting out quickly and her fingers landed on his left elbow.

He couldn't breathe.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. Far too quickly to be anything except the lie it obviously was. And that was the first time she’d actually called him by his name. Easily. She’d said it easily, like it was just...easy.

She was right, he really needed to expand his vocabulary.

“Yuh huh,” Emma mumbled, clearly not convinced.

“I used to work at a coffee place. When I was in school,” he said and the forced subject change was as obvious as his lie had been. Emma didn’t seem to mind. Her mouth dropped open slightly, breath she must have been holding rushing out of her quietly and he could actually hear her arm fall back against her hip. “What?” Killian asked. They were going in circles.

“I worked at a coffee place...at home. Or, well, in Maine.”  
  
“Maine?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You grew up in Maine.”  
  
“No.”  
  
He had, at least, eight-thousand questions. He couldn’t ask any of them. He really should ask some of them.

He was the worst journalist in the world.

“Coffee order,” Emma repeated, pulling Killian out of his own thoughts and confusion. She nodded towards the few feet between them and the register and he hadn’t even realized they’d been moving.

“Oh, uh,” he stammered, trying to remember how he drank coffee. “Large. Americano. With an extra shot. Or two.”  
  
“Be more specific. And this is Starbucks, stop acting like you don’t know what the sizes are.”  
  
Killian grinned at her, far too charmed for his own good. “Venti. Americano. With two extra shots.”  
  
“That’s gross.”  
  
“That’s an opinion.”  
  
“It’s a shit ton of espresso.”  
  
“That is a fact.” Emma rolled her eyes and they were only two people removed from the register, the crowd growing louder with every purchased cup of coffee. “You going to tell me what you’re going to order then or are you going to make me guess?”  
  
She lifted her eyebrows, judgement settling into the slight tilt of her head, but Killian met her stare with one of his own. He was going to get, at least, one answer. “Three quarters hot chocolate, one quarter whatever’s on brew and not more than an hour old, plus an extra shot of espresso and then three pumps of cinnamon syrup. And cinnamon powder, but I can, well, I can do that myself.”  
  
That was not the answer he was expecting. At all.

Emma bit her lip self consciously, blush rising in her cheeks as she rocked back onto her heels and crossed her arms – tightly. She was playing defense.

“That’s incredibly specific, Swan,” Killian said lightly, reaching out to tug her arms apart before he could consider all the reasons he should do the exact opposite. “And a good amount of your own espresso.”  
  
“I worked early a lot,” Emma mumbled. Only one person in between them and the register. Her cheeks were still bright red and she’d uncrossed her arms when he’d moved them, but one of her fists was balled up on her side.

He wanted to say something. He _should_ have said something. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wasn’t some sort of completely inappropriate and vaguely unprofessional flirting and maybe just shouting that he desperately wanted to kiss her.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t get a chance.

“Shouldn’t you be interviewing me?” Ruby asked, pushing through the line and ignoring the grumblings of the half a dozen people she’d nearly stepped on. “Oh, relax,” she sighed, glancing over her shoulder at a guy with a headset still hanging around his neck. “I’m not cutting. In fact, I’m helping you.”  
  
“You’re going to cause a riot,” Emma muttered.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, pushing a handful of cash towards Emma. “We just want normal coffee across the board. Except for the kid. He probably shouldn’t have coffee, right? Get whatever fancy nonsense you normally get and then meet us at the table. C’mon Jones.”  
  
She barely gave him half a moment to object, eyes focused and a tight grip on his shirt, but Emma flashed him an encouraging smile and Killian moved without an argument. Except Ruby didn’t push them towards the table where the rest of the team was sitting – Anna with one arm around Henry while she made faces at the camera in Will’s hands, Elsa’s smile obvious as she and Belle tried to examine a stack of paperwork Tink was pushing at them.

“Where are we going, Ruby?” Killian asked, only slightly concerned for the future of his t-shirt. She hadn’t let go of him.

And she didn’t answer, just kept tugging him towards an almost abandoned corner and this all felt a bit too familiar for comfort.

“Here,” she said, pushing on his shoulder until Killian backed into the wall. “Stand still.”  
  
“I’ve got nowhere to go.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Killian held up his hands, shrugging slightly and Ruby’s gaze somehow narrowed even more, eyes barely more than slits as she kept staring at him with the intensity of several different complete solar systems. “Interview me,” she commanded. He blinked. “You look confused. Why is that confusing?”  
  
“It’s not,” Killian objected. “I’ve just never been ordered to interview anyone before.”  
  
“Is that because most of the people you were writing about were dead?”  
  
“I mean, well, yeah.”  
  
“Well, I am not dead. None of us are dead. But you know who will be if you fuck this up?”  
  
“I’ve got a general idea.”  
  
Ruby grinned at him – the smile inching across her face and Killian dimly remembered something about predators and prey and what it must feel like right before someone higher up on the food chain was about to devour you. “Alright, well, you’ve won awards and I’m a ready and willing subject,” she said. “Ask me a question then.”  
  
“Right now?”  
  
“Obviously. Tick tock. Deadline’s looming.”  
  
Killian mumbled under his breath, ignoring whatever Ruby was doing with her face, and tugged his recorder back out of his pocket. “Name,” he said, clicking a few buttons and flipping his hand into the space between them.

“Excuse me.”  
  
“Your name. For the quotes. Age too. And where you’re from. Originally.”  
  
“Ruby Lucas,” she snapped. “Not quite thirty, so throw that high up in the story, Electchester.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow. “Queens?”  
  
“Parsons Boulevard. Granny still lives there now.”  
  
“And you live…”  
  
“Are you trying to get my address, Jones?” Ruby asked, but it lacked the bite from their earlier conversation. “Can’t you just figure it out the same way you figured out where M’s lives? Also, how’d you know Emma was staying there?”  
  
“Mary Margaret mentioned it to Henry who mentioned it to me. Post-ice cream.”  
  
“So the ice cream really was a bartering chip, then?”  
  
“No,” he argued. Lied. _Another lie_. Ruby rolled her eyes again. “You offered up this interview, Lucas, you’ve got to actually answer the questions.”  
  
“Alphabet City. I rent a room. I’m waiting with baited breath for the 2nd Avenue Subway line.”  
  
“Don’t hold your breath.”  
  
“You’ve got a lot of opinions on the public transportation system then?”  
  
Killian nodded, tapping his recorder against the front of his shirt. “Morningside Heights,” he said, like that was an explanation. It kind of wise. “Not a lot of choice with just an above-ground 1 a few blocks away.”  
  
“You’re a city kid?”  
  
“Yup,” he nodded again and some of the intensity in Ruby’s glare dissipated, like she’d found an ally or something. “Where’d you go to school?”

“Mary Louis.”  
  
“Fancy,” Killian laughed. “And all girls, right?” Ruby scowled, widening her eyes when Killian didn’t immediately offer up his own high-school history. “Murry Bergtraum. A very long 1-train commute.”

“Dedicated.”  
  
He hummed noncommittally, not quite willing to explain that the only reason he even got out of bed was because Liam regularly dragged him out of it, forcing a cup of coffee in his far-too-young-to-be-drinking coffee hands and pushed him out the door. And then asked him about his homework. Every night. Incessantly.

Killian shook his head, trying to get rid of memories that seemed to hang off the back of his brain like cobwebs. “How do you know Emma?” he asked, holding his recorder back towards Ruby.

“Million dollar question, huh?”  
  
“This was your interview demand, Lucas. I’m just following the normal rules.”  
  
It took her a moment to answer and, in the short time he’d known Ruby Lucas, Killian was a bit stunned by that. “College,” she said simply, scrunching her nose and balling her fist when he lifted his eyebrows in response. “We worked together in Maine. Mary Margaret introduced us. She was thrilled.”  
  
“She seems to have a tendency to do that. Was she some kind of matchmaker in another life?”  
  
“You’ve met her, would that be all that weird?”  
  
“Probably not,” Killian admitted. “Alright, so you worked at the coffee place then?” Ruby punched him. She actually punched him – hard, the pain of it shooting down Killian’s left arm. “What the hell was that?”  
  
“How do you know that?” she hissed, glaring at him like he’d just been convicted of treason.

“Emma literally just told me. Before you attacked me in line.”  
  
“There was no attack. Just an interview demand.”  
  
“Semantics. Ok, so at the risk of getting punched again, you guys went to school together then too?”  
  
Ruby’s eyebrows dropped and she pulled her fist away from his shoulder as quickly as if she’d been shocked. “No,” she muttered.

“No?”  
  
His head was going to explode – there, simply, was not enough room in it for all the questions he kept coming up with. “I'm very confused,” Killian admitted and Ruby made some kind of absurd noise in the back of her throat.

“She’s got to tell you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That’s not part of the interview. No comment or whatever the technical term is. Ask me another question.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s not how this usually works,” he said, eyes darting up when he heard another set of shoes moving across the floor and Emma was next to him, a slightly nervous smile on her face and a tray of drinks in her hand.

“Here’s your super gross drink,” she said, tugging the cup out and the smile wasn’t quite as cautious anymore. Killian wasn’t sure if he imagined the way her lips turned up when he brushed his fingers across hers, but he’d probably think about it for, at least, several hours.

“Swan, you’re mixing approximately two hundred drinks in one cup, you’ve got no leg to stand on when it comes to my drink preferences,” Killian pointed out. She was definitely smiling at him.

Ruby groaned. “Em, you’re interrupting an interview. We’re doing real serious work here.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it’s time to go play video games, so maybe we can put the serious work on the back-burner for a couple minutes or so,” Emma said, nodding towards the door and the quickly dissipating crowd in Starbucks.

“Aye aye fearless leader. Put that in the story too, Jones. Before you mention my age or your questionable knowledge of Queens.”  
  
“My brother worked at Shea one season,” Killian said and the cup in his hand nearly exploded, his grip suddenly tightly enough that he wondered if it was possible to pull muscles in his hand.

Ruby froze, her own drink stuck halfway to her mouth. Emma was staring at him like she’d just seen a ghost. “You have a brother?” she asked softly. He nodded. _Another lie_. There went that whole honesty plan. “Oh.”  
  
He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to ask his million questions and understand whatever game they were playing at the moment, but there were more footsteps and a team of professionals who needed to get into headsets and try and earn a number one seed and Killian was already walking back towards the Theatre with Henry’s excited voice ringing in his ear.

They didn’t win.

They didn’t even win a single match – the defenses falling quickly and obviously, even to Killian’s untrained eye. Henry’s near-constant groaning helped too. He sighed loudly when the announcer proclaimed Singularity the top seed in the qualifying tournament and they didn’t _have_ to win – were in as soon as they made the top eight – but Killian could see the disappointment in Emma’s shoulders and the way her whole body seemed to sag just a bit in her chair.

“Well, that sucked,” Henry said despondently, kicking the toe of his shoe into the carpet that had only gotten more disgusting as the day wore on.

“Hey,” Killian snapped. “None of that.”  
  
“That was bad though.”  
  
It had been, but he was an adult, or something, and maybe responsible and he’d let Henry drink way too much caffeine already, he had to hold on to some of his ideals. “It’s still a good story,” he said, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or Henry.

“Obviously. You’re writing it.”  
  
Killian had lost control of the day as soon as he saw Emma walk across 44th Street nearly a dozen hours before, but that might have been the most important thing that had happened. He smiled at Henry, one hand falling on the back of his neck and the kid noticeably slumped against his side. “Let me get some quotes and then I’ll bring you home, ok? We’ll get a cab and you can sleep in the back seat.”  
  
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”  
  
“You’re going to fall asleep standing up if we stand here any longer. A couple of quotes and then we’re gone.”  
  
“Can I come with you? Belle said we could talk strategy after the final match.”  
  
Killian considered that for a moment, but Henry was still leaning against his side, eyelids fluttering slightly and he wasn’t convinced he could actually stay upright for a prolonged period of time. “Yeah, sure, kid.”

They weaved their way through the crowd, a woman Killian assumed was Zelena talking to both teams and going over _what happened next_ and he tugged a notebook out of his back pocket, jotting down notes as he strained to hear plans.

It took what felt like a very long eternity for Zelena to get through everything, Henry’s weight growing by the moment as he rested his head on Killian’s side as soon as they sat down. His eyes were closed by the time Emma walked up to them, that same look of disappointment in the air around her.

She smiled when she saw Henry.

“If this is another attempt at charming me for quotes it might actually work,” she whispered.

Killian shook his head. “Nah, this is just generic exhaustion.”  
  
“Sorry your story’s going to suck.”  
  
“It’s not, Swan. You guys won as soon as you got through the first round. That’s the story. And everyone loves an underdog.”  
  
She laughed softly, stuffing her hands into her pockets and half her hair had fallen out of the braid it had been in all day. “Is that what we are?”  
  
“Decidedly. But I’ll let you in on a trade secret, I’ve got a good feeling about this underdog.”

“Oh that was a good one,” Emma muttered, smile as wide and genuine as it had been all day. “They were really good at attack. I’ve never seen a team move that well together. It was like they were a hive mind or something.”  
  
“That’s a good quote.”  
  
“On the record.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“If you want.”  
  
“That’s kind of the point,” Killian said. It was, at least, part of the point now. The rest of the point might be getting to know Emma Swan. He didn’t say that out loud.

She hummed, dropping into the seat next to him and she was close enough that he could have reached out and held her hand. Only she was on his left side. He tried not to breathe too loudly. “Ask away,” Emma mumbled, nudging her shoulder into his arm.

They sat there for another fifteen minutes, the only other sounds the retreating footsteps of the crowd and the cleaning crew and Henry’s quiet snores. She was, all in all, an excellent quote. She was honest and forthcoming and talked about how much they’d wanted to win, but a second seed out of the qualifying tournament wasn’t bad for an untested group like them.

He held onto his recorder and tried not to stare at her too intently, certain actually looking at her like he was _stunned by her_ would send Emma running to the metaphorical hills in Midtown Manhattan. She didn’t leave. She just kept talking and explaining how much they all wanted this and _yeah, of course we know people don’t expect us to play well, but that’s stupid_ and Killian was glad Henry had fallen asleep.

If only so he didn’t have this moment to report on to his parents.

Emma trailed off eventually, tongue darting out between her lips and he couldn’t just move and kiss her. Right? No, there was an eleven-year-old draped across him. And Will Scarlet was calling his name.

“Fuck,” Killian sighed and Emma laughed weakly,

“What is he calling you?” she asked, leaning forward slightly and her hand was back on his arm.

“Hook.”  
  
“Why? And does Henry call you that too?”  
  
Killian nodded, trying to brush off Will when he started jogging towards them. He only stopped when he realized Henry was asleep. “It’s a very old nickname,” he explained and his stomach clenched when Emma’s eyes darted down towards his hand. “No, no, not that.”

Emma widened her eyes, lips almost non-existent as soon as she tugged them back behind her teeth. “How did you put it so eloquently before? Fuck?”  
  
“Something like that,” he laughed, the tension giving way slightly. “It’s from college. Scarlet and I went to college together and he thought it was funny. Hook ‘em. You know, with a good lede or something? You hook them into the story and get the audience.”

“That’s even more lame than you using the phrase wrecked before,” Emma smiled and her thumb shifted, bunching up the fabric of his shirt. “Although it was a good story.”

“That’s why I’m here, love.”  
  
She scoffed, but she didn’t actually object to the nickname and Will was standing in front with a knowing smile on his face and a camera in his hand. He took another picture. “You want me to take him?” he asked, nodding towards Henry. “I’ve got to go farther downtown than you.”  
  
“Nah,” Killian objected, tugging Henry back up and he couldn’t really hold him, but he, at least, got him back on his feet. “I told Gina I’d do it. She’ll kill me if you show up.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true. You go on the record, Emma?”  
  
“Yup,” she nodded, standing up as well and reaching out quickly to brush the hair out of Henry’s eyes. “Ruby leave yet? She owes me an Uber.”  
  
“I think she’s waiting outside.”  
  
“Good.” Emma turned back towards Killian, anxiety settling into the pinch between her eyebrows. “Is there a deadline? Should I just be refreshing two-hundred times tomorrow morning so you get all those hits? Do you get paid by the hit?”  
  
“I don’t get paid by the hit,” Killian interrupted. “I do appreciate the thought though. You can click a hundred times if you want. And, yeah, it’ll be up tomorrow. I’ve got to drop the kid off and then write. If Scarlet files his photos on time we might even get up in time for the morning e-mail blast.”  
  
“Ass,” Will grumbled.

Killian shrugged, far too preoccupied with Emma’s face and reaction and keeping Henry upright. “Ok,” she said softly, but she was breathing evenly and she’d gone on the record. “A hundred clicks, at least.”  
  
“Thank you,” he said and he might have actually rocked towards her. Henry stumbled, groaning loudly and mumbling a string of words that made the adult in Killian gape at him. “I better find a cab before this kid turns into a Gremlin.”  
  
“That is an incredibly dated reference. I knew you were a giant nerd.”  
  
“Average sized.”

Will coughed pointedly and Killian rolled his eyes at his complete lack of tact. Emma hummed in agreement, grabbing the bag she’d left on the floor and hitching it over her shoulder. “I better go before Ruby leaves me in Times Square. I’ll uh…”  
  
“Tomorrow?” Killian prompted. “Maybe answer your texts.”  
  
“I make no promises.”  
  
“That’s fair. Good night, Swan.”  
  
Her lips twitched, that piece of hair back there to taunt Killian specifically and he nearly fell over when she pressed her palm against him again. “Night, Killian.”  
  
Emma jogged back towards a yelling Ruby and Killian hiked Henry back up, wrapping his arm under his shoulder blades. Will took another picture. “Not a word, Scarlet,” Killian warned.

“Of course not, Hook. Of course not. C’mon, we’ve got a deadline to meet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the words and forgetting how many words are in these chapters. I hope you guys are still enjoying the words. We're finally getting into the competition, but I promise you do not need to know how video games work or Overwatch works or any of that. I don't, so, you really don't. Video games is just kind of...where everything happens. Some stuff's going to happen. 
> 
> As always, thanks for every click, comment and kudos. Come flail on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	6. Chapter 6

She hadn’t really slept the rest of the weekend.

She’d blame it on being too wired or, maybe, too disappointed, the memory of how _easy_ it had been to play like absolute shit running on a loop every single time she closed her eyes. If Emma was being honest with herself – she absolutely was not being honest with herself – it wasn’t either one of those things.

It was everything else.

It was a disgusting amount of espresso in one coffee order and how undeniably charming it had been to turn the corner and find an eleven-year-old kid wearing her team’s incredibly lame t-shirt asleep on Killian Jones’ legs and how he’d just casually mentioned he had a brother, like he wanted to keep talking to her.

Like they were friends.

Or…

Nope.

No. Absolutely not.

That was why she’d spent most of the last few nights tossing and turning on the air mattress in the corner of Mary Margaret and David’s apartment – the left corner deflating somewhere in the realm of three in the morning on Monday and Emma had just given up on even the idea of rest at that point.

She wasn’t doing this. She wasn’t even entertaining the thought.

She would answer his questions – and it had been _easy_ to answer his questions once she’d agreed to it, to sit next to him and come up with slightly snarky responses just to see the flash of amusement in his eyes and the way one side of his mouth tugged up when he was trying not to laugh.

And she’d circled right back around to that particularly dangerous train of thought.

This was insane.

Emma didn’t do relationships. Oh, fuck, she hadn’t thought _that_ word once during her middle of the night ponderings and rolling around on, eventually, the floor. The air mattress had deflated completely just around five in the morning.

She’d actually laid flat on the floor for two hours thinking about Killian Jones and whatever he did with his face when he was particularly impressed by one of her answers and how he’d promised it was still a _good story_ before she pulled herself out of the blankets and tried to figure out how to use Mary Margaret and David’s coffee maker.

David laughed at her when he found her, still struggling, seventeen minutes later. And then he handed her a bear claw and smiled like he knew exactly what she’d spent the entire night doing.

God.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Emma jerked her head up, nearly falling off the stool she’d been perched on for the better part of the last forty-five minutes, a sea of paperwork spread out in front of her and they really should have been paying Granny – if only because they must have been using a shit ton of electricity.

Ruby was screaming at the screen on the other side of the restaurant, feet propped up on the chair in front of her, while Belle tried to calm her down. It wasn’t working. Tink might have actually been asleep in one of the booths, curled up in the corner and it was barely even nine o’clock yet. Anna’s eyelids kept drooping, fluttering quickly as she tried to keep her gaze directed at a phone that hadn’t stopped buzzing since she’d walked into Granny’s.

Elsa was still staring at Emma – an encouraging smile on her face and an understanding look in her eyes. It made Emma wonder if everyone could just read her mind.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Not great.

She felt not great about that.

She felt not great about most of the things that had happened in the last three days. Except maybe how warm Killian Jones’ hand had felt on her shoulder. Or how absolutely, frustratingly, infuriatingly _solid_ he’d felt under hers.

God, how often had she touched him? A lot. It was definitely a lot. Way more than whatever professional world they were living in allowed.

 _He didn’t seem to mind much_.

Jeez. And shit. And goddamn fucking shit, jeez, _fuck_. That voice in the back of her head was the single most frustrating thing she’d ever heard and Ruby had been playing the game for nearly an hour already, chanting along with the catchphrases.

“Maybe I should have offered a dollar,” Elsa continued, eyes flashing towards Emma. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”  
  
“I promise none of my thoughts are worth that much,” Emma said. Elsa hummed, but it didn’t sound like she believed a single letter of a single word. She just pushed a mug across the bar, nodding towards the steaming drink.

“It’s not whatever ridiculous coffee order you have, but it’s at least a little caffeine. You look like you could use that too.  
  
“I apparently look like a lot,” Emma snapped, the words harsher than she wanted them to be. She was an unqualified disaster. And they had a ridiculous amount of paperwork to go through. And a career to plan. And she couldn’t stop thinking about Killian Jones.

Elsa clicked her tongue, but she didn’t say anything and Emma was an asshole. An exhausted asshole. With bags she could actually feel under her eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I am...I haven't sleep much.”

“Yeah, I kind of picked up on that,” Elsa said. “We’ve circled back around now, though. I’m willing to up the ante to five bucks if you want to share what kept you up all night.”  
  
Emma laughed despite the sea of _feeling_ practically churning in the pit of her stomach. “Did you draw the short straw to come over here or how did it work exactly? I’d imagine Ruby warned you about me and early-mornings.”  
  
“I volunteered, if you can believe it.”  
  
“I absolutely cannot.” Emma paused for a moment, glancing at Elsa who didn’t look the least bit disturbed by the distinct lack of conversation in this conversation.

Elsa Magisno didn’t talk much – had barely said two words the first time Emma met her, dragged into Granny’s with Anna’s hand around her wrist and a nervous look on her face like she’d never seen quite that many people in one, inclosed space.

She rarely said anything during the game, a fact that Emma tried not to be too annoyed by, particularly when it seemed Anna never actually shut up during the game, but she was good and nearly as good at playing defense as Emma was. She didn’t think there was a deeper meaning behind that, but Emma had gotten approximately fifteen minutes of sleep the night before and her brain was just a bit addled.

She needed more coffee.

An IV of coffee.

“Why?” Emma asked and Elsa’s eyes widened in confusion. She needed to work on her question-technique. “Why did you volunteer?”  
  
Elsa shrugged. “I was curious? You really do like you’ve got a lot on your mind and I’ve got...experience in that.”  
  
“Thinking?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Elsa laughed. “Anna says it’s because I was a strategist in another life. You know, like, planning battles and all that. She says that’s why I was suddenly so good at the game. It was all instinctual.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait, you mean you’ve only just started playing the game?”  
  
Elsa winced, squeezing her eyes closed. “Anna’s been playing games like this since we were kids,” she explained. “It was, uh, it wasn’t ever really my thing. But then some things happened and we kind of needed something to bond over? Does that sound as ridiculous out loud as it did in my head?”  
  
“No,” Emma said, trying to infuse as much meaning as she could into two words. “That’s really nice, actually. And I get the bonding thing a little bit. I didn’t start playing until my brother forced me in front of the TV and demanded I learn.”

“Does he still demand that?”  
  
“Weekly. It’s because he thinks one day he’s going to be able to beat me, but then Ruby shows up and we just destroy him and he slinks into the corner to wallow for a few hours. Then we usually do the whole process again.”

Elsa laughed over the top of the mug in her hand, a far-away look in her eyes that Emma understood, but couldn’t quite rationalize at Granny’s bar in the middle of the morning. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “maybe you and Anna could come over some time? M’s would freak, she’d probably bake two-hundred cookies or something. And David would try and prove how good he is at video games. I’m always down to see him get destroyed in front of other people.”  
  
“Really?” Elsa asked and there was a surprise in the question that made Emma’s breath hitch. She nodded. “That’s really nice.”  
  
“Ah, well, all for one and one for all on a team with a trademarked name, right?”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s exactly how Dumas phrased it, but I think you got your point across.”

“That’s all I can expect when I’m running on no sleep and garbage coffee.”  
  
“Don’t let Granny hear you say that.”  
  
“She’s doing inventory in the back,” Emma said, glancing towards the door at the far end of the room just to make sure she hadn’t inadvertently taken her own life in her hands. “I don’t actually have a death wish.”

Elsa didn’t say anything for a few moments and Emma tried not to linger on how absolutely _shitty_ the coffee actually was, but that left her mind to wander and, somehow, that was almost worse.

“Ten bucks,” Elsa said suddenly.

Emma nearly choked on her coffee. “What?” she sputtered. “Are you still bartering for my thoughts?”  
  
“You’ve been doing a fantastic job of avoiding my questions.”  
  
“You’re really sure Ruby didn’t send you over here? This all reeks of Ruby.”  
  
Elsa shook her head. “She did not. She, and I’m paraphrasing here, said she wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole. I’m assuming you’re the _that_ in that sentence.”  
  
“Absolutely. It’s because she’s well acquainted with the under-caffeinated and ill-rested version of me. I wouldn’t touch me with a twenty-foot pole if I wasn’t me.”  
  
“This has suddenly turned very existential.”  
  
“It’s because I’m exhausted,” Emma mumbled, dropping her head onto her folded arms and resisting the urge to actually fall asleep on the bar. They had paperwork to fill out, League missives from Zelena that she’d decidedly ignored the night before and a list with sixteen teams that Emma was only vaguely familiar with.

They had research to do. There was no time to sleep. That’s why she’d mass texted them as soon as David was done laughing about her battle with the coffeemaker, demanding everyone’s presence in Midtown.

Ruby had just responded with sixteen middle-finger emojis.

“If I push the offer to twenty bucks and venturing out onto the street to get whatever ridiculous coffee you ordered before will that get me a few general ideas of what you’re thinking?” Elsa pressed and Emma tried not bristle at the question.

She chewed on her lip, trying to swallow back another less-than-pleasant retort and reminded herself that she’d already invited Elsa and Anna to some kind of quasi-family dinner with video games. She could be friendly.

She could have friends.

She could have a team. Whatever that meant. It probably meant twenty bucks and a five-dollar coffee and another person who seemed genuinely interested in knowing what she was thinking.

 _Like Killian_ , her mind suggested traitorously and Emma groaned before she could stop herself. Elsa looked nervous again.

“That groan wasn’t directed at you,” Emma said, a roundabout apology she should probably get better at.

“Ah,” Elsa muttered in understanding. “So that’s…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Maybe I should get that twenty-foot pole before I ask that question.”  
  
Emma scoffed, some of the exhaustion falling off her and she’d absolutely ignored her phone since she’d sent out that group text. She’d turned it off. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. She didn’t want to be tempted.

She didn’t want to read it.

She wanted to ignore it completely. If it was even there. She had no idea how websites worked or internet traffic or what time his deadline was. She hadn’t asked. He’d asked all the questions.

And she’d answered them.

On the record.

God, she had so many follow-ups.

“I’m not going to bite your head off,” Emma promised. “And maybe you’re on the right path or something.”  
  
“Or something.”  
  
“Definitely something.”  
  
Elsa’s eyes widened and the smile turned into something that almost looked a smirk and interest and this was all so _high school_ it actually hurt. This was insane. There was no something. There was negative amount of anything.

Emma didn’t want him there.

She didn’t want the story. A story was dangerous and unnecessary and left her feeling far more vulnerable than she could remember being in several decades.

And yet she couldn’t quite get him out of the back of her mind – hadn’t been able to since Friday night and quiet admissions about Boston and this job and what he wanted and, maybe, what she wanted and if he’d just been less attractive this wouldn’t have been a problem.

That was an absolutely enormous lie. The voice in the back of her mind was probably laughing at her.

Maybe she should turn her phone back on.

“For what it’s worth,” Elsa said, leaning over the bar to grab the coffee pot on the other side. She filled up Emma’s mug without asking. “I think it could be a good something. If we’re just going on looks. Furtive or otherwise.”  
  
“Furtive,” Emma repeated skeptically, but her heart beat almost painfully in her chest and that was absolutely unfair. “SAT words this early should be against the rules.”  
  
“Noted. That fancy education comes back to haunt me sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Did you know they have a high school at the UN?” Emma shook her head, certain her face mirrored the surprise she could almost feel shooting down her spine. Elsa nodded, that same, faraway look on her face from before. “Very fancy. Very proper. Very focused on SAT scores and alumni donations. There was...a path and a plan and it didn’t really work out, but I remember some things.”  
  
Emma didn’t know what to say. She was frozen, a mug of absolutely horrendous coffee in her hand and her mouth hanging open. Elsa tried to smile. “Anyway,” she continued and Emma recognized the subject change for what it was. “There were looks. Of the clandestine nature.”  
  
“That’s another SAT word.”  
  
“I’m just trying to keep you on your toes.”  
  
“Trust me, that’s the last thing I need right now,” Emma mumbled. “You really think so though?”

“Don’t you?”  
  
“I feel like we’re going in circles. Weren’t you the one trying to bribe me for information?”  
  
Elsa scowled. “I wouldn’t go that far. I was just trying to get you to talk. It’s a known bargaining technique.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Can I make an observation?”

That caught Emma by surprise. She was far too used to Ruby. "You don’t need to preface the examination,” she said and it was just easier to be an asshole. Elsa didn’t seem perturbed. She smiled. Goddamn. “Yeah,” Emma sighed. “Kick me next time I say something like that.”  
  
“You’re tired.”  
  
“That’s a lame excuse.”  
  
“An understandable one,” Elsa corrected. “Alright. Observation one. You’re nervous. Not about the game, per se, but about what the game can do. Good and bad. Good, of course is the money and the career and the possible sponsorship offers. Bad is the opposite of all that and coming up short and maybe getting sued for trademark infringement.”  
  
“I’m actually legitimately worried about that one.”  
  
“I know you are. Maybe we should get a lawyer. I know some people. Observation two.” She held up two fingers, wiggling them slightly and Emma tried not to roll her eyes. Ruby was still screaming at the game. “You don’t want us to do this story stuff. Which I get. It’s a lot of sudden and kind of jarring publicity and _The Daily Caller_ is a huge website. But if we’re going to circle back to the potential good of observation number one then I think the story kind of comes with the deal.”  
  
Emma sighed. She was right. She was almost painfully right. And that was one of the things she’d spent nearly an hour considering somewhere just after one in the morning the night before.

What had Killian said? Something about a team? That they’d make a good one? Maybe it wasn’t the lie Emma assumed it had to be.

She should turn her phone back on.

“Observation number three,” Elsa continued, holding up another finger and Emma gaped at her.

“How many are there?”  
  
“This is the last one. Observation three,” she repeated. “You don’t trust him, but you like him. It’s similar to observation one, but also kind of different because you’re not quite sure what to do with that mess of feeling.”  
  
Emma nearly fell off her stool. She spilled her coffee. Again. “What?” she sputtered, lunging forward to grab a handful of napkins, desperately trying to keep the coffee from reaching the pile of paperwork just to her right.

“Killian,” Elsa said easily, like that wasn’t blatantly obvious. “You very clearly don’t trust him. Because you can’t figure him out. Didn’t you Google his name after he showed up here for the first time?”

“Did you?”  
  
“An answer,” Elsa implored, pouring another cup of coffee and pushing it towards Emma. There was still a wadded-up pile of napkins next to her.

That shouldn’t have felt like some kind of metaphor.

“Yeah, I did,” Emma admitted. “And kind of asked him about it, but he’s also incredibly good at avoiding questions.”  
  
“Probably a professional talent.”

“Maybe.”

“But?”  
  
“How do you know there’s a but?” Emma asked.

Elsa shrugged, something that felt a bit apologetic in the movement, like she was sorry she was pulling answers out of Emma. That wasn’t really what it felt like. It didn’t feel quite _normal_ , talking about _boys_ – _Killian_ , God – but it also felt a bit like friendship and Mary Margaret would be disappointed that she hadn’t had this conversation first.

“An educated guess,” she grinned. “So, go on, he’s good at avoiding questions, but…”  
  
“But he’s also not? There’s more to this story. Or him. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“I just get the feeling he’s not...telling me something,” Emma mumbled, the words sounding pitiful as soon as they were out of her mouth. “And he doesn’t have to. This is a job. For both of us. But he knows Regina Mills, knows her _kids_ and Scarlet’s got a nickname for him that he said was from college and that must mean they know each other well too, right?”

Elsa hummed and Emma was eighty-five percent positive she was losing her mind. No wonder she’d lost the coffee maker battle. “I think it does,” she continued. “Not like I’ve been thinking about that. That would be crazy.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“I just did. And observation three wasn’t totally true,” Emma pointed out. Elsa’s eyebrows flew up her forehead, lips pressed together tightly like she was trying to actually swallow back her response. “I halfway trust him. In that I know he wants to write a good story, but I can’t figure out why.”

“Didn’t he get fired?” Elsa asked knowingly. Ruby’s head snapped at that – sixth sense flaring to life and she nearly leapt towards the bar, nearly knocking over the keyboard in front of her.

“Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?” she demanded, eyes darting between Emma and Elsa. “Em, M’s is going to be so pissed you didn’t have this conversation with her.”

“That’s not true,” Emma argued, mostly with her conscious. “Mary Margaret doesn’t know how to actually get pissed off. She’ll be disappointed instead.”

“Oh, that’s worse.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“You’re the one who wanted us here at this ungodly hour.”  
  
“It’s almost ten in the morning,” Elsa said, nodding towards the actual clock that hung over a shelf of mid-tier liquor. Emma kind of needed a drink.

“Ungodly,” Ruby repeated, emphasizing every syllable. “Tink’s been asleep the whole time. That should be a sign.”  
  
“Of something,” Emma mumbled and Ruby quirked a questioning eyebrow her direction. “We don’t even know her,” she whispered, leaning forward slightly and she was going to knock another cup of coffee over.

“We didn’t know Elsa and Anna either,” Ruby said. Elsa held her hands as if to prove she was actually trustworthy.

Emma sighed. “God, Rubes, at least pretend to have some tact.”  
  
“And why would I do that when this is so much more fun? You look exhausted, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ve been over this already. If you wanted to be part of the inquisition you should have gotten here earlier.”  
  
“I feel like I should resent that,” Elsa muttered, but she was still smiling and Emma wondered if it was possible for Mary Margaret’s eternal patience to actually exist in another sentient being.

“Whatever,” Ruby grumbled. “I’m here now and I totally rolled against whatever teenage boys I was playing against just now.”  
  
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing,” Emma said.

Ruby glared at her for half a moment before turning her attention back to Elsa. Emma knew that look. This conversation was never going to end.  

“She definitely looked him up,” Ruby said. “The same night he was here. And called him on Friday before the cut.” Elsa’s eyebrows moved again. Emma wished the floor would swallow her up. Or maybe she should just go play the game – work out some of that residual energy she was suddenly flush with.  
  
“How did you know that?” she snapped.

“Please,” Ruby rolled her eyes. “Mary Margaret cannot keep a secret to save her life. And you need to work on your undercover voice or whatever. Maybe he could give you some tips since he did all that work in New Orleans.”

“Who’s working in New Orleans?” Anna asked and Emma groaned, rolling her head between her incredibly tense shoulders.

“Killian Jones,” Ruby explained. “Winning awards and shit.”

Anna’s eyes widened – more blue than anything else – and she wobbled slightly as she took a step forward. “Oh, right, that drug thing.”  
  
“How did you know about that, but not about New Orleans?” Emma asked sharply. Anna actually tripped.

“No, no, reason,” she stuttered. It wasn’t even a good lie. It was an almost painfully bad lie. If Emma wasn’t so exhausted – from lack of sleep and the frustrating direction the conversation had taken – she probably would have been offended at how bad it actually was, but there were still coffee-saturated napkins a few feet away from her and a powered-down phone and they needed to figure out how they were going to get to Philadelphia in a few weeks.

“Right,” Emma said, dragging the word out until it sounded like an entire monologue. “So, if we’re all done then, I’d really love to actually get going here.”  
  
Ruby saluted. “Aye aye, fearless leader.”  
  
“You’ve got to stop calling me that.”

“Jones thought it was funny.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Don’t you though?”  
  
“Ruby,” Emma and Belle said at the same time and their reprimands couldn’t have sounded more different. Belle sounded like she expected it. Emma sounded somewhere in the realm of furious. Ruby didn’t even flinch.

“Can we focus, please?” Emma asked. It sounded like she was begging.

Ruby’s face softened slightly, Belle’s hand falling on her shoulder and maybe that intra-dating rule wasn’t so bad if it got them back on track. The voice in the back corner of her brain did several somersaults and then got a perfect-10 on the vault from the Russian judge.

She’d lost her mind. Clearly.

“Aye aye,” Ruby mumbled again, pushing the paperwork towards Emma with a smile.

Emma took a deep breath and tried to look like she had control over her life. “Alright,” she started, glancing at the booth where Tink was, finally, waking up. “So, congrats to us or whatever because we’ve made it. It would have been cool to be the top seed, but Singularity was good and our defense sucked and…”  
  
“Focus, Ems,” Ruby muttered.

Emma huffed. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got time to fix that. The important thing is that we’re in and that means we’re getting paid. Zelena wants these contracts back by the end of the week and maybe we should get a lawyer?”

She directed the question towards Elsa who shrugged again and maybe she was the secret lawyer. That almost would have made sense.

“The getting paid thing is important here since we’re the only team, at least in qualifying, that doesn't have a sponsor. We’re going to have go a bit out of pocket here if we want this to work, especially with the thing in Philadelphia next month.”

The _thing in Philadelphia next month_ as they’d taken to calling it – when Ruby wasn’t calling it the _convention of the nerds_ – was the first-ever Overwatch event, sponsored by the League and the company that made the game and it was supposed to prove to people that this was _real_ and a sport and not just a bunch of kids who still lived in their mom’s basement.

It was probably at least half kids who still lived in their mom’s basement.

And it was expensive as fuck.

“Can’t we do something with that?” Tink asked, the first time she’d really voiced a single opinion in any of these team meetings. Emma tilted her head, waiting for the rest of the question. “I just mean if we don’t crash and burn with this story thing then that’s some publicity and if we work the Philadelphia event, then we might be able to draw some interest. Could help.”

“That’s...actually a really good idea,” Emma mused, glancing back towards Ruby who had never learned the art of an inconspicuous shrug.

Tink grinned. “It’s been known to happen sometimes. The story might help though.”  
  
“Is that out yet?” Belle asked, glancing around the room. No one answered. Oh. They were all cowards – collectively.

“Wow, we’re all really lame, aren’t we?” Ruby laughed. “It’s probably fine. It’s totally fine. Jones won awards. He’s not a total dick, right Em?”  
  
Emma blinked, banging her elbow on the front of the bar in an effort to brush the hair out of her eyes. “What the hell, Rubes?”  
  
“That was a generic question. You’re the one who went on the record.”

“That was for the game. For the team. I wasn’t doing research on whether or not Killian Jones is an actual dick.”  
  
“Not yet at least.”  
  
She might have actually growled – whatever noise she made, it actually hurt her throat and Ruby almost looked cautious when Emma jumped off the stool and grabbed another stack of papers. “Sign this,” she hissed.

Ruby didn’t argue.

Emma took a deep breath, trying to pull the oxygen in through her nose and she hadn’t realized she’d started pacing between tables until she nearly knocked over a chair. She tugged her phone out of her back pocket, tapping her thumb on the top impatiently until it lit up.

She tried not to drop it when it vibrated violently in her hand.

She had twenty-seven text messages.

Most of them were Mary Margaret – promises that the story would be good and wondering where the story was and asking if Emma could send her a link when she got it.

There were a few more from David – another jab about the coffee maker and requests for lunch if she was going to be in Midtown anyway and she’d only had that bear claw when she’d stumbled into the kitchen. She was starving.

And there were three from Killian Jones.

Recently.

Or, well, the last one was recently. The first one had come at five in the morning.

**5:05 am: Filed. It’s five-thousand words, which is the most I’ve written in four years. At least.**

**8:42 am: I’m only just realizing that I actually sent that at a ridiculously early time. I’m hoping that’s why you haven’t answered and we’re not back to ignoring text messages.**

**10:17 am: Are you going to this Philadelphia thing? Should I know more about this Philadelphia thing?**

Emma hooked her foot around the bottom of the chair she’d run into, practically collapsing into it, but she could feel the muscles in her face moving and she might have actually been smiling. Her fingers started moving before she’d even thought of a response.

**_Are you stalking me? And yeah, probably._ **

Her phone buzzed half a breath later, the vibration shooting up her arm and that might have just been her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. God, she’d spent the whole morning gossiping about boys – _Killian Jones_ – and now she was texting and maybe flirting and she had a team list to examine.

She had a trip to goddamn Philadelphia to plan.

**You know, those sentences together were a bit confusing, Swan. It sounded like you were asking me if I was stalking you and then suggesting I should.**

**_Well, history is not kind to you on this front. You’ve got one strike with that whole breaking-into-school-systems thing._ **

**A misplaced decision. Obviously.**

Emma tried not to sigh too loudly at that, the frustration – and maybe the disappointment? – obvious in the short string of words. She kept typing instead.

**_Were you writing until five in the morning?_ **

**Eh, five in the morning is generous. Writing until maybe 4:30, editing until whatever time that first text message came.**

**_Don’t you have an editor? Isn’t that how that works?_  
** **  
** **Your knowledge of the journalism industry is vast, Swan. Yes, I have an editor. I have no idea who is in charge of lifestyles.**

**_That seems like something you should know._ **

**It’s been a rather hectic two weeks.**

She didn’t answer immediately, trying to figure out just what _that_ meant, when her phone vibrated again. He was an efficient texter. And Ruby was going over the list. Emma had lost control of her team.

**Gina probably read it. This whole thing was her idea, I think she’s laid claim to it already. Probably already drove her assistant to tears with edits and demands this morning.**

**_Do you not know? Don’t you work?_ ** **  
**  
**Seems a little judgmental, love. I think my five in the morning messages proved that. I’m walking in now. And pray tell where are you?**

**_Whatever._ **

**That’s not an answer.**

**_Granny’s. Going over strategy. And maybe other teams if I can get control of this meeting or whatever we’re calling it. And also figuring out how we’re going to get to Philadelphia._ **

**Ah, so Philadelphia is important?**

**_You knew that already. Yeah, it’s super important. If we make a good impression or something we might be able to get some corporate help and maybe a little air time on the League site. Maybe they’ll talk about the story._ **

**So no pressure or anything.**

**_None_** **.**

He didn’t answer immediately and Emma was still smiling – something fluttering in between her rib cage that might have been butterflies or just the actual, physical embodiment of the word _absurd_ , but she didn’t have more than a moment to consider what to name it when Ruby screamed her name.

“God, what?” Emma sighed, but she felt her shoulders sag when she saw the look on Ruby’s face. “Bad?”  
  
Ruby nodded. “Not great.”  
  
Emma took a step forward, glancing down at the sheet of paper in Ruby’s hand and any idea of butterflies seemed to actually fly away. She was holding her breath, but her hand didn’t tremble when she pulled the paper towards her and she didn’t even really need to look to know where this was going.

There it was – the top goddamn seed. _Second star_ –  _team captain, Neal Cassidy_.

“Shit,” Emma breathed, dimly aware of Ruby’s steps and a hand on her shoulder and a supportive smile just on the edge of her eye line. Her vision was starting to blur and her phone was still vibrating.

“How is this possible?” Ruby asked. “Shouldn’t he banned or something?”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Yeah, but I like you.”  
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh, knees not quite as certain of her weight as they’d been a few hours before. “It’s because it’s a new League,” she reasoned. “Or something. I don’t know. No one asked me to provide a background check when I showed up, maybe the same holds true for him. That makes sense, right?”  
  
Ruby shrugged – neither one of them willing to give credence to the idea that was practically _breathing_ in front of them.

Neal hadn’t gone to jail.

Emma had. She’d been seventeen years old and she’d gone to jail – set up by her boyfriend after running away from home and there’d been nothing any of them could do, no way for David to swoop in and save her _again_ when all the evidence was stacked against her.

It was stupid and, now, years later, Emma couldn’t quite believe she’d ever let it get that far. But she wanted to _play_ and it was still so early, no one believed you could actually make money playing video games and, well, there was a pretty easy way to make sure that you did.

Fix games. In less-than-reputable gambling circles.

And she needed money. _They_ needed money. There was a plan – a schedule and a life, just out of reach for the girl who was fairly positive everyone was, eventually, going to leave.

Emma agreed, nodded quickly when Neal suggested the idea and promised _nothing is going to happen_. It didn’t – to him.

She was a very easy fall. That’s what David told her, like that would somehow make any of it better or expunge her record or make this whole feature story idea any less terrifying.

The whole thing had worked for awhile, six months of blissful memories that were all tinged just a bit darker now and they were going to get out. Neal promised a house and a home and a place to settle and she was young and naive and when the investigation turned towards them he gave her up without so much as a second thought.

And now he was the goddamn team captain of the top seed in a video game league that was probably going to change her whole life.

Emma felt sick to her stomach.

“Are you ok?” Anna asked cautiously, peering over Ruby’s shoulder. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Not now, Anna,” Ruby mumbled as Emma tried to nod. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t quite breathe. God, she was furious. What a goddamn asshole. “Sit down, Em. You’re freaking me out.”  
  
Emma let out a sarcastic laugh, but she let Ruby push her back towards the chair she’d been sitting in, only just managing to pull her phone out of her back pocket. “This is real?” she asked, tracing across Ruby’s face for even a hint of laughter. There wasn’t any. Emma sighed. “Shit,” she repeated. “Well, now we’ve really got to win.”  
  
Ruby clearly didn’t expect that. She laughed – a loud, enthusiastic, _victorious_ sound – before flinging her arms around Emma’s neck and kissing her cheek. “David’s going to try and come to Philadelphia now.”  
  
“If you tell David, I will actually kill you.”  
  
“He’s going to find out sooner or later.”  
  
“Let’s focus on the later in that conversation then,” Emma said, trying to make it sound like a command. Ruby groaned.

“You’re really ok with this?”  
  
Emma shrugged. The obvious answer, of course, was no. She was not ok with her ex-boyfriend who’d avoided jail time by giving her up to the feds and not even having the decency to show his face when he did it, being her top competitor in a national event that she desperately wanted to win. She did not want to possibly run into him in Philadelphia, surrounded by a team that might be trending close to friends, but was still somewhere in the realm of strangers, with only Ruby as her defense and, maybe, Killian Jones documenting the whole thing.

Oh, fuck, Killian.

Ruby squeezed her arm again, reading her mind and sympathetic wasn’t exactly a look Emma was familiar with from her friend. She was glad to see it anyway.

“David’ll kill ‘em both,” Ruby muttered and Emma blinked quickly so she wouldn’t just start to fall apart in that chair. She hadn’t slept enough for any of this. “Plus,” she added. “Some other things I’m not sure you’re ready for.”  
  
Emma shook her head. “No tact at all.”  
  
“I’m just saying. You told him about coffee.”  
  
“How do you know that?” Emma asked quickly, pulse picking up again and her foot skidded on the floor underneath her. Granny must have had it recently waxed. Probably over the weekend. When they were playing video games and Emma was, maybe, flirting with Killian Jones.

Definitely.

“He asked how I knew you, I said we worked together in Maine and he supplied the coffee shop. He seemed very curious.”

Emma’s breath rushed out of her and this was far too much information for whatever time it was. “That’s his job.”  
  
“Yeah, I was not getting vibe, strangely enough.”  
  
“Stop.”  
  
“I’m just…”  
  
“Stop,” Emma said again. “Please.”

Ruby nodded, tongue pressed against the edge of her lip and she was still crouching in front of Emma like she was waiting for the blow-up. She’d never answered David or Mary Margaret’s text messages.

Her phone rang.

She wasn’t surprised.

“Hello, Detective,” Emma said calmly, not even bothering to glance at the name on the screen. Ruby laughed loudly.

David huffed into the phone. “What the hell, kid? You know I was two seconds away from putting out an actual APB on you? Answer your phone.”  
  
“I’m answering my phone now,” she said and she’d done it solely for the reaction. David sounded like he was actually trying to eat his phone now. “You knew I was going to Granny’s. What’s the matter? And, at the risk of actually yelling at you, what stopped the APB?”  
  
“Mary Margaret,” David said at the same time Ruby mumbled _M’s, obviously_ under her breath. “I called her first to find out if you’d acknowledged her, but apparently you’re ignoring across the board, so….”  
  
“I am at a team meeting.”  
  
“So you haven’t looked at your phone?”

“Just spit it out already,” Emma groaned. “This is exhausting.”  
  
“I knew you didn’t sleep last night.”  
  
“David!”  
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” he sighed and Emma could almost _see_ him raising his hands in defeat. He probably had his phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder and, if she could hear right, a rather vocal crowd of tourists around him.

“David,” Emma said slowly, an idea mulling in the back of her brain and it wasn’t really an idea when she already knew it was a fact. “Are you walking over here already?”  
  
Silence. Well, as much silence as could be found in Times Square.

“He’s totally walking over here,” Ruby added. She was sitting on the floor, legs pulled up towards her chest and chin resting on her knees. Emma flashed her a confused look and she grinned. “My knees were starting to hurt.”  
  
“Naturally,” Emma mumbled. “David,” she repeated and he made a noise in the back of his throat. “That was a question.”  
  
“Are you the reporter now, Em?”

“That’s a rather pointed question.”  
  
“Seriously, have you not looked at your phone yet today?” David asked. Emma wavered, dragging out a quiet _ehhhhh_ and resolutely refusing to even glance at Ruby. She looked at Elsa instead, that same encouraging smile on her face. “Ok,” he continued. “I’m going to tell you this and you need to promise not to break any of Granny’s tables or anything because we like it there and you need a place to practice.”  
  
“I promise not to do any damage to the furniture,” Emma said flippantly, standing up and pacing again when her legs felt like they’d start moving without her if she didn’t do something about it.

David sighed and he was absolutely rolling his eyes. Emma tried to be patient. “There’s no story,” he said eventually, voice even, but just a bit quicker than normal, like he was trying to get the words out of his mouth as fast as he possibly could.

Emma stopped pacing. “What?”  
  
“There’s no story. On the site, I mean. Mary Margaret thought it might be on that stupid blast thing they sent out, but the e-mail came and nothing. So she’s looked and searched and I’ve scrolled through the entire Lifestyles section four times and…”  
  
“Nothing,” Emma finished. David nodded, the sounded of his cheek moving across the phone impossibly loud for wherever he was.

Her stomach flipped again. And then flopped for good measure. And the room might have been spinning. She’d walked away from the chair.

“It’s not the end of the world, Em,” David said. She was already shaking her head, the collective gaze of her an entire team boring into the back of her head.

“No, no, that’s not how this is working. It’s got to be up there.”  
  
“It’s not, kid. I promise.” Emma narrowed her eyes at the ancient nickname, well aware that David was still blocks away. He knew anyway. “Maybe just...find out? What’s going on? I mean he was there on Friday, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So then maybe…”  
  
If he didn’t finish a sentence she was going to go insane. “Listen, you don’t have to come over here to check up on me. Go save the city or something.”  
  
“Em.”  
  
“I’m fine,” she lied. David knew that too.

He sighed softly, but it sounded more like defeat than the start of another argument. “Ok,” he said. “But let me know what’s going on, ok? And maybe text Mary Margaret back? She’s worried.”  
  
“Of course she is.”  
  
“A good thing.”  
  
“Go do you job, Detective.”  
  
“Fine. Go kill things.”  
  
Emma nodded again, nearly punching her thumb into her phone screen in an effort to end the call. Ruby was still sitting on the ground, but her spine was just a bit straighter and her palms were pressed flat next to her. “He think you’re dead?” she asked.

“Yes,” Emma answered. “You look at the site?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“ _The Daily Caller_. Did you get an e-mail blast or anything?”  
  
“I”m not seventy years old. Who gets e-mail blasts?” Emma bit her lip, crossing her arms tightly and she should just look herself. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. A goddamn coward. “Oh,” Ruby said suddenly, understanding flashing across her face. She pulled her phone out quickly, moving her thumb at what might have been the speed of light and she exhaled loudly when she found what she was looking for.

Or, rather, didn’t find it.

“No,” Ruby said simply, brushing off Anna’s sudden string of questions. Emma’s eyes darted back towards Elsa, smile gone and shoulders as straight as if there’d been a bar across them.

“God damn,” Emma hissed, a plan forming in her head and, at some point, she should learn how to control her limbs. She was halfway to the door already, the grip on her phone tight enough to snap it and Ruby didn’t even try to stop her.

That seemed like a sign.

She ignored it.

She still hadn’t actually programed his number in her phone, but she smacked at the screen anyway, running on adrenaline and something that felt distinctly like rage and being lied to. It took two rings before he answered.

“Swan?”

Emma wished her stomach would stop trying to medal in wherever the next Summer Olympics were. She pushed the door open, leaning up against the side of the building and he’d programed her number – or he just _knew_ her number.

God.

“Where is it?” Emma asked sharply, bypassing nicknames and anything her stomach was doing.

“Where’s what?”  
  
“The story.”  
  
Killian made a noise, something that might have been confusion, but just made Emma want to punch several things – virtual or not.

 _V._ _V._ _V._ _V._ _V._ _V._

“I don’t understand,” he said slowly, a door swinging shut behind him. “The story’s on the site.”  
  
“Have you even looked?”  
  
“I just got here.”  
  
“I thought you were just walking in. Was that part of some kind of text message show, then?”  
  
“I got coffee, Swan. I wasn’t aware there was so much concern over my schedule.”  
  
She kicked at a loose rock under her feet, managing, somehow, to stub her toe and hit a tourist walking up 50th Street. “Oh, shit, sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbled.

“What is happening right now?” Killian asked, another creak and he must have sat back down. He had an office. A fancy office. With a door and, likely, fancy coffee. And she had no story.

“Did you write a story?”

“I already told you I did. At five in the morning. There was a timestamp and everything.”

Over-confident asshole. And he was right. She’d read the text message. There was no point in lying at five in the morning. “Then where is it?” Emma pressed, trying to cling to that anger that she could still feel in the tips of her fingers.

“I have no idea.”  
  
“C’mon, you honestly expect me to believe that?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Emma admitted and he actually laughed at her. “Asshole,” she grumbled and she couldn’t kick at another rock. She’d probably kill a tourist. It was that kind of day. It was eleven in the morning.

“That’s quite an assumption there, Swan,” Killian muttered, shifting and she could hear him try to press the phone against his ear at the same time he started clicking. “And maybe just a bit rude, all things considered. I thought we were making headway on the being friends front.”  
  
“Why would I want to be friends with you?”

The words seemed to hang in the air in front of her, pushed up by the smell of garbage and Midtown in late summer and the pizza place around the block. And then they slapped her. Metaphorically. It hurt like hell.

The sidewalk felt like it was moving under her feet, shifting before Emma could try and catch up and she couldn’t quite get her bearings, not able to find any traction in the sneakers she was wearing. It was probably because she still didn’t know how they were going to get to Philadelphia, or who she would see in Philadelphia and she’d agreed to this whole, stupid story idea, she wanted a goddamn story.

“Huh,” Killian said, clicking his tongue on the word. “Well, I’ll admit that’s disappointing.”  
  
Emma licked her lips, breathing heavily – like she’d actually just run a mile on the moving sidewalk. “Where’s the story, Killian?” she snapped and she hadn’t meant to actually use his name again.

She could hear him swallow on the other end, the chair scraping on the floor again and she wondered if he paced a lot too. “If I had an answer for you, love, I would give it to you.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
“That’s not fair.”  
  
It wasn’t. He was right. And Emma knew it. She still couldn't seem to stop talking. “I don’t care,” she muttered. “I was told this was a good idea. Was promised over and over again how much it would help the team and get us a bit of a spotlight and maybe some corporate interest and then you show up playing games and bringing kids on assignments and going on the record and then...nothing. There’s nothing.”  
  
“This is a good idea,” Killian said softly. Emma could _feel_ it – the desperation in his voice, the determination to prove _something_ and she tried to ignore exactly what that was.

This was insane.

She never should have agreed to any of it.

“Then where is the fucking story?” she yelled, fingernails pressed into her palm as she tried to actually funnel her anger down her arm.

“I don’t know,” Killian said just as loudly. There was a knock and another creak and someone should fix his office door at that very fancy website. “No,” he mumbled distractedly. “No! She can wait two fucking seconds.”

“You can go do whatever it is you have to do,” Emma sighed. There was a brick pressing into her spine. “I don’t care.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Honestly. Just, you know, maybe next time you’re going to blow us all off, let me know so my best friend doesn’t sign up for your site’s shitty e-mail blast and gets like two-hundred e-mails in an hour.”  
  
He almost laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. Defeat. He sounded defeated. “Alright, let me ask you a question,” he said and Emma scoffed. “One. That’s it.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
“Emma, listen to me, have I told you a lie?”

She was glad for the brick now – supporting most of her weight when her knees gave out slightly and the air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding rushed out of her. That was the first time he’d called her Emma.

“This whole time,” Killian continued. “Have I told you anything that wasn’t true? I promised you honesty, Swan and I’ve kept my promise. That’s not going to change.”  
  
Was Emma still standing? She thought she was. She wouldn’t have been surprised, however, if this was all some weird lack-of-sleep hallucination and maybe she could just blame the garbage smell. It smelled horrible.

“Have I?” he pressed and the desperation in his voice was like one of the flashing billboards around the block.

“I don’t know anything about you,” Emma said. Killian sighed – she was avoiding the question again. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re painfully good at writing about dead people and drugs and totally screwing over my team!”  
  
Killian hummed. “This is about your team then?”  
  
“Of course!”  

“Of course,” he repeated skeptically.

“God, why are you being such an ass about this?”  
  
“And you told me that I was the one who needed expand my vocabulary, love,” Killian chuckled. “If you’re going to insult me, at least give me some variety.”

Emma groaned, head thrown back and she’d forgotten about the wall. “Oh, God, Jesus Christ,” she hissed, hand flying up to her head and she was almost surprised to find that she hadn’t shattered her skull.

“Are you ok?” Killian asked sharply and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Stop it.”  
  
“I’m asking you a question, Swan. You just started growling at some unseen enemy so unless you’re trying to take down a virtual opponent, I’m assuming there’s actually something wrong. Also I can hear the horns. You’re not inside.”  
  
“Investigative journalist extraordinaire.”

This conversation was all over the place. It was draining. God, she was tired. “A simple question, Swan. Yes or no, in fact.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“That wasn’t a yes or a no, but I’ll accept it.”  
  
“Ass.”  
  
“Broken record, love.”  
  
“Where is my story?” she shouted, drawing the attention of an entire family wearing matching _I Love NY_ t-shirts. “Did you even write it?”  
  
“God damnit, Swan,” Killian groaned. “Yes, I wrote the story. I don’t know how many different ways to tell you that I don’t know what happened. This wasn’t part of the plan. It should be up there, receiving your one-hundred hits as promised.”  
  
He kept trying to make jokes. Or make her laugh. Or try and be friends. She was far too pissed off for any of that. And someone was hanging around the front door of Granny’s calling her name.

“Fix this,” Emma growled, not even bothering to wait for a response before she stuffed her phone back into her pocket and marched back towards the restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did promise some drama, didn't we? It won't last long. Really. But everyone is really stressed out and things are just getting started. 
> 
> Come flail or yell at me on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	7. Chapter 7

The line went dead and Killian resisted the urge to actually throw his phone across the office.

Aurora was still standing in front of the door – hand raised like she was terrified of what would happen if she tried to knock again.

Killian sighed, running his hand over his face and there was already a headache blooming in the back corner of his skull. His coffee had gone cold.

“God damn,” he mumbled, pushing away from the desk with far too much force and nearly knocking himself on his back. He wasn’t sure who to yell out first. Maybe Scarlet. That would almost be fun.

He couldn't yell at Aurora again. She already looked like she was on the verge of something Killian absolutely did not want to deal with.

“Alright, what?” he asked, widening his eyes at Aurora when she didn’t answer immediately. She hadn’t moved. And that was far too aggressive. He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound like some kind of actual attack, but there was, apparently, no story and he really should look, but he was having a hard time seeing through the red on the edge of his vision and he’d called her _Emma_. Jeez.

Aurora wasn’t breathing. It didn’t look like she was breathing.

“Oh my God,” Killian muttered, taking three, quick steps forward and swinging the door open. She didn’t flinch. That seemed like a step in the right direction. “Can I help you, Aurora?” he asked, trying to keep his tone level and any frustration – _fury_ – he felt in the very center of him.

She nodded quickly, blinking twice before finally answering him. “Ms. Mills is looking for you.”  
  
“Yes, I heard that the first time you mentioned it. Did she happen to say why? Or why she couldn’t just come down here and talk to me?”

Aurora furrowed her eyebrows, confusion radiating off her as she tilted her head. “Why would she do that?”  
  
“Oh my God,” he repeated and that fury was barely contained as he marched out of his office and left his phone on the desk. Aurora kept blinking.

He didn’t even bother waiting for the elevator, all but sprinting up the stairs and maybe he should start walking more because he was questionably out of breath by the time he reached, what he hoped was, Regina’s floor.

She glanced up when he walked into her office, one eyebrow lifted slowly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“I could ask you the same thing,” Killian said, barely keeping his balance as he walked into the room, let alone a calm, even, _professional_ voice. Regina’s other eyebrow moved.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know you didn’t have to show up here so early. You sent your story at the crack of dawn.”  
  
“You’re suddenly concerned with my sleeping habits? You’re the one who wanted me to bring Henry back downtown the other night. He could have just stayed with me.”   
  
There wasn’t anywhere for Regina’s eyebrows to move, but she certainly made an effort – twisting them and her mouth until her whole face had transformed into some kind of _disbelief_ that made Killian feel like he’d just gotten her coffee order wrong.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Regina asked. “And where exactly would he have stayed? In one of the chairs in your hotel room? You are still living in a hotel room, right?”  
  
“You know the answer to that question.”   
  
“Then stop suggesting stupid shit.”   
  
Killian groaned, his right hand finding the top of his brace and Regina’s eyes flashed, all judgement and, maybe, concern and a frustrated sense of confusion that he felt in every single inch of him. “I’m going to try and find a new apartment. Soon. The hotel thing is expensive.”   
  
“It’s a hotel.”   
  
“Thank you for pointing out exactly what I just said.”   
  
She scoffed, sitting up a bit straighter and leaning across her desk. She looked she was poised to attack. Maybe he should have tried to get more answers from Aurora – some misplaced effort to better prepare for the situation.

There was no preparing for Regina Mills.

“Uptown still?” she asked, quieter than the previous insults and Killian shrugged. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, he wouldn’t want that. You are torturing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. It was a…”  
  
“Mistake,” Killian interrupted. “Yeah, I know. There are documents from the United States to back that up.”   
  
Regina sighed, pushing her hair back behind her ears and for half a second she looked a decade younger and just as worried as she was when Killian showed her those very same documents from the United States.

“This is stupid,” she continued. “You’re being stupid.”  
  
“That’s a very pointed opinion. Sounds a bit like Roland.”   
  
“He’d want you to move downtown too. So he can force ice cream out of you and make you do his bidding because you’re trying to make up for time missed.”   
  
“Shit, Gina,” Killian mumbled, resting his hand on the chair in front of him. She nodded towards the seat, but he didn’t sit down. If he sat down he might lose some of the anger he could still feel shooting down his spine and he was going to get some goddamn answers. “You are full of undiscussed judgements aren’t you.”   
  
“If you’d be willing to acknowledge any of this, we’d have had this conversation as soon as you got off the train. But you’re you and you’re a stubborn asshole, so, here we are.”   
  
“A delight as always, your majesty.”   
  
“Are you ever going to tell me why you barged in here or are we just going to keep doing this not-talking dance, because my feet hurt and this song is boring.”   
  
“That was a meticulous metaphor.”   
  
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t get to write much anymore. I’ve got to work out all that talent, some way. C’mon, talk. That’s an order or something.”   
  
“Where’s my story?” Killian asked, standing back up and crossing his arms tightly. It felt like he was crushing his own lungs. And he could still hear the disappointment in Emma’s voice, the frustration and the surprise and the _hurt_ and he’d promised. This was going to work.

This had to work.

“What?”

Killian widened his eyes, not quite prepared for the absolute surprise on Regina’s face. She pressed her back against her chair, eyes narrowed slightly and lips parted and the whole room seemed to shake. This was a disaster.

“My story,” he repeated. “Didn’t you read it?”  
  
Regina nodded. “Obviously. It was good. Actually. Long, but, you know, no word count on the internet. I actually think it’s almost better that they didn't win. Makes it more compelling. Underdogs drive hits. It’s leading the section.”   
  
“Are you sure about that?”   
  
“Killian, I read it. And I don’t read anything. Ever. Especially not in lifestyles.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“It’s almost always fluff,” she shrugged and Killian made some sound of disbelief in the back of his throat. “Whatever,” Regina continued. “I needed to get you to agree to this job. So I pumped up lifestyles more than it deserved. Sue me.”   
  
“I might, actually. I think this is breach of contract or something.”   
  
“Try and make sense before you threaten me with legal action,” she said evenly, not impressed with threats and Killian wondered if anyone in that building was ever going to take him seriously.

“My story is not on your piece of garbage website,” Killian growled.

“Of course it is.”  
  
He sighed, an exasperated, exhausted noise and he’d left his phone in his office. Fuck. He should call Emma back. He needed to get the story on the website first. “Gina, I’m not lying you to,” Killian said. “I’m telling you it’s not there. Or it’s hidden or something, I don’t know. But people can’t see it.”   
  
He was going to kill whoever did Regina’s eyebrows. They were far too expressive.

“People,” she repeated slowly, glancing at her computer screen. There were a few more clicks and a few quiet _tutts_ under her breath and her shoulders slumped when she didn’t find what she was looking for.

“Told you,” Killian muttered petulantly.

“And who told you?”  
  
“That’s not important.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Fucking hell, Gina,” he sighed, tugging on the back of his hair and if he didn’t sit down he was going to kick her desk. He didn’t think his shoes would survive that battle. Regina’s desk was questionably large. And probably expensive. He couldn’t afford to move out of that hotel and fix a ridiculously large desk.

“Did I win?”  
  
Killian dropped into the chair, every one of his limbs feeling far too heavy. “Win what, exactly?”

“I think you’ve got some ethics and professional dignity,” Regina replied, clicking on something again and reaching out to grab the phone on her desk. “Robin disagrees.”  
  
“If this is some kind of pep-talk, it needs a lot of work.”   
  
“It’s not. It is a question.”   
  
“About?”   
  
“Where your head is at.”   
  
Killian bit his lip – the sarcastic, profanity-laced retort on the tip of his tongue not likely doing him any favors, or getting his story on the goddamn internet. He knew where his head was at. And it shouldn’t have been there.

It should have been several thousand miles away from there in a different time zone and only just getting out of bed because it was several hours behind eastern standard time.

“My entire body is right here, Gina,” Killian said and she didn’t even try and stop herself from laughing. He bit his lip again – hard. “Are you going to tell me what happened to my story then? And why you couldn’t just come downstairs to talk to me? Or called me. This is all a little high and mighty, even for you, your majesty.”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“I mean, I know you’re all Regina Mills in italicized and bolded letters up here, but I’d at least have thought you’d be able to tell me to my face what the problem was. There are a lot of people who are depending on this story, Gina. You don’t have to send a terrified assistant to come and get yelled at by me.”   
  
“Did you yell at Aurora?” Regina asked sharply.

“You sent her downstairs! And I was on the phone. She’s got to learn when to knock.”  
  
Regina gaped at him and Killian could almost hear the gears working in her head. “We’ll circle back to how important this story is to multiple people and your blatant lie regarding the discussion of your head space in a second, but I didn’t send Aurora downstairs. In case you’ve already forgotten everything that’s happened in the last five minutes, I thought your story was leading the section.”   
  
Oh, well, damn. She was totally right. And he’d been far too angry to realize it. Or actually stop moving even after he’d sat down in that chair.

Regina grinned at him, that same, predatory glint in her eyes and she should really meet Ruby Lucas if only because she might actually find her match in intimidation games.

“Would you like to rephrase some of your questions now, Mr. Award-Winning Journalist?” Regina asked archly.

Killian shook his head, the _fury_ morphing into something that was more like generic frustration and he hoped Regina had at least done something about getting his story on the site with all of that clicking. “Aurora said….”   
  
Fuck.

Fuck, shit, damn, God _fucking_ assholes. Every single one of them.

“She didn’t mean you,” Killian mumbled, pushing out of the chair with enough force that he actually winced.

“I don’t understand,” Regina admitted. It sounded like she was in pain.

“She said _Ms. Mills wants to see you_. She didn’t fucking mean you. She meant Cora.”

Regina’s eyes widened and she was standing too, a quick, jerky movement that left her very expensive desk chair shaking in her wake. “You know I think I’m offended that you heard Ms. Mills and automatically thought it was me.”  
  
“Gina, I don’t have time for this.”   
  
“I don’t make my assistant call me Ms. Mills.”   
  
“That is not the point.”

“Aurora’s actually almost nice when she’s acting like she’s the capable human being her résumé promised she was and she gets coffee orders right and…”  
  
“Gina,” Killian snapped and her eyes darted back towards his. “Where’s Cora’s office?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“You can’t actually go talk to her. She’s going to kill you.”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes, the frustration practically pulsing in time with the headache that was treading dangerously close to a migraine. “She’s going to actually murder me on Broadway? I find that hard to believe. And even if she does, just think of all the hits that’ll draw.”   
  
“I’m serious,” Regina groaned. “She must have taken it down. I certainly didn’t. And if she took it down _and_ wants to talk to you now, she’ll probably rip your contract up right in front of your face. She didn’t want you here.”   
  
“So I’ve heard.”   
  
“From who?”   
  
“Scarlet,” Killian said, shrugging. Regina mumbled a string of curses under her breath. “You’ve got to keep your secrets closer to the vest, Gina. Scarlet’s just going to tell everyone everything. It’s not in his nature to keep his mouth closed.”   
  
“That’s why he’s only a freelancer.”

Killian laughed before he could remember how out of place the sound would be in the middle of that office and Regina shot him a look – far too familiar and maybe he’d bring Roland to get ice cream later that afternoon if only to remember there were good things in the world. He was a melodramatic idiot.

“I did sign a contract,” Killian pointed out. “A year here as a staffer. And I haven’t actually done anything wrong yet. I made deadline for your early-morning e-mail blast and everything.”  
  
“It’s the yet in that sentence that worries me,” Regina said, walking around the side of her desk and tugging on the front of his t-shirt. “You know you can’t, right? There are rules and ethics and questionable biases.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“Cora will figure it out.”   
  
“Nothing is happening, Gina. The story’s the only thing I care about.”   
_  
Lie. Lie. Lie_.

It didn’t even sound like a convincing lie. He’d taken a deep breath before he’d spoken, eyes falling to his feet and the tiny bit of carpet in between his sneakers and Regina’s heels. He could feel her sigh in front of him.

“She’s going to blame the hits,” Regina continued. “She’ll say there weren’t enough and she pulled it and it’s as crazy as it sounds, but that’s exactly what she’s going to say. And she doesn’t have an office. She’s never here. She’s got a conference room that she likes to claim as her own when she deems it time to come and view her burgage.”  
  
Killian blinked, but Regina’s face didn’t change – a look of resigned disappointment that seemed to settle into the crinkles around her eyes. “I’m sorry, Gina, did you just make a feudalism joke?”

“I mean it wasn’t a joke really. A reference, at best.”  
  
“I can’t believe you just used the word burgage in actual conversation.”   
  
“I can’t believe you heard the phrase Ms. Mills and came up here to yell at me. This story was my idea. I’m not going to pull your work, Killian.”   
  
“I know,” he sighed.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. I was just…”   
  
“Worried and anxious and, I’m assuming, just put through the wringer by Mrs. Nolan’s best friend.”   
  
“Something like that.”

Regina hummed and she didn’t really have to push up to reach up, but her heels popped out of her shoes when she moved anyway, one hand falling on his cheek and she hadn’t done that in a decade, at least. “You want me to go?” she asked. “I can talk to her. Maybe tell her to give you more than an hour on the internet before she decides you’re a complete failure.”  
  
“No,” he shook his head. “If I’m going to stick around, then I’m going to have to deal with Cora. No time like the present.”   
  
“Killian Jones, mature adult.”   
  
“Something like that,” he repeated, mumbling the words and Regina’s hand fell back to her side.

“It was good. We’ll get it back online and then the gamers won’t want to kill you and you can keep being incredibly professional and following those ethics they taught you about in school.”  
  
“You’ve got about as much tact as Scarlet, you know that, right?”   
  
“I resent that,” Regina hissed. “And that’s not even fair. He’s seen you in action this whole time. He can be more of a dick about this.”   
  
Killian tried to take a deep breath and came up decidedly short, lungs suddenly too small to do what they were biologically built for and this conversation had fallen completely off the rails. “I’ve got to go fight your mother for my job,” he said, ducking his head and kissing Regina’s cheek before stalking back to the door, the sound of her _I resent that too_ lingering in the air behind him.

He’d never actually asked _which_ conference room Cora was holding court in, but the twelfth floor had a fairly large one and a pretty good view up Broadway and if Killian had to guess, he just hoped it was that one.

He was already fifteen minutes late.

Cora didn’t look up when he walked in – a pen held lightly in her hand as she tapped it on the table in front of her, a pile of paperwork just to her left and narrow eyes that could probably see through a person’s soul if she tried hard enough.

She looked older than Killian remembered. Her dark hair had turned grey and there were wrinkles on her face that certainly hadn’t been there a decade before, but her shoulders were just as straight and the blazer she had on probably cost more than the uptown hotel that was slowly bankrupting Killian.

“Took you long enough,” she said lightly, not bothering to lift her eyes. She stopped tapping the pen.

“I have a job,” Killian countered. Cora’s gaze flitted up towards his, a mix of amusement and disdain in her stare. He pressed his heels into the ground and tried to keep his left arm trained at his side. It didn’t matter. She looked anyway.

“About that,” Cora continued. “I read your story.”  
  
“And took it off the site. Why?”   
  
“No hits.”   
  
Regina was going to be insufferable about this. And Killian landed back in the very middle of _furious_ far quicker than he expected. “It was on the site for twenty minutes,” Killian argued, taking another step into the conference room.

Cora didn’t look concerned.

“And our good stories get hundreds of hits in the first few minutes they’re online,” she said, as if she had any idea of what a good story was or any sort of understanding that wasn’t directly provided to her in chart form.

“That’s breaking stuff. Of course it’s going to get hits. It’s happening in the moment. This is a feature story, Cora. A series of feature stories. You can’t expect a million hits if you don’t give it a few hours to find its legs.”  
  
She pursed her lips and, _shit_ , he’d called her Cora. He was on a goddamn roll. “I don’t have a couple hours,” she said. “I have minutes. I have an immediate response. There was no response. I doubt there will be.”   
  
“You don’t know that!”   
  
“I’ve been in this business for quite some time, Mr. Jones. I know what I’m doing. And you would too if you could stay in one place for more than a few weeks.”   
  
Killian bit his tongue until he tasted blood, the taste lingering in the back of his mouth even after he swallowed and both of his lungs had collapsed. It felt like that.

He stuffed his hand in his pocket, rocking back on his heels and Cora didn’t blink.

It felt like a contest.

“I wrote a story,” he said softly. It felt like his voice was scratching its way out of his throat, leaving angry, red marks in its wake and he could still taste the blood in the back of his mouth. “I signed a contract. It should be on your site. That’s how this works.”  
  
“I decide how this works,” Cora laughed. “You’re only here because my daughter promised me quite a bit to get you here.”  
  
Killian knew his eyes widened at that, knew he’d fallen into whatever _plan_ Cora had and this couldn’t possibly be real life. This was alliances and deception and a goddamn website with a lifestyles section.

But he’d promised Emma Swan and it was a _good story_ and he’d be damned if he didn’t get to tell it.

“What did Regina promise?” Killian asked and the next step forward wasn’t quite as confident. Cora smiled. “She’s running your whole site, you can’t lose that.”

“Oh I don’t want to. But she volunteered. Knew you’d been cut loose in Boston and wanted to make sure you had somewhere nice and soft to land. Of course, I’ve never entirely understood her fascination with you or your brother, but I suppose it’s easier to play mother hen when there’s only one of you now.”  
  
He wasn’t sure where all the excess oxygen that rushed out of his lungs came from, but it hurt and Killian locked his knees so he couldn’t move, couldn’t even consider taking another step, forward or backward, just stood frozen in the middle of the conference room with Cora Mills’ knowing gaze on his face.

“She seems to believe in you,” Cora continued, resting her elbows on the table. “And this story. I can’t understand why. On either front. But she was adamant. You come in and you write this and if it didn’t hit, then she’d bring in some of my people.”  
  
“Your people,” Killian repeated skeptically and the words sounded wrong as soon as he said them.

Cora nodded. “To run some of the sections. I’ve given Regina far too much control for far too long. Misplaced judgment. I thought she understood after she gave up on that ridiculous music idea. There’s no place in this industry to cater to your friends. She keeps Robin on staff, lets him run a whole section, brings you in from Boston when you can’t hold a job. Again. God, she hires Scarlet so often he might as well be full-time with benefits.”  
  
Killian scoffed, rolling his eyes and this was the most absurd thing that had happened since he’d gotten back to New York. And he was still living in a hotel, preoccupied with thoughts of blonde hair and blue eyes and a MetroCard that was almost in constant need of refilling because he kept schlepping downtown to eat on Spring Street.

He should buy a monthly MetroCard.

“Robin is here because he’s an editor,” Killian said. “And a damn good one because your front page has one of the most recognizable layouts in the industry. Gina is only here because that music dream died. Literally. Daniel died, Cora. And Scarlet could shoot anywhere he wants. He does it because he wants to help Gina.”  
  
“Gina, huh?”   
  
“It’s always been that, you know it.”   
  
“I’ve never understood it,” she said, sounding like she was mumbling the thought to herself. “She acted like you were...part of something.”   
  
“Really kind of laying it on, don’t you think? You’ve had fifteen years to stew about this. It’s not going to suddenly change now.”   
  
Cora’s eyes flashed, dark brown and far too similar to Regina’s to be completely comfortable in that suddenly silent conference room. “You think that’s true?”   
  
“I signed a contract, Cora. A full year. Put my stories on your site. There are people who are counting on this.”   
  
He knew he’d said too much as soon as the words were out of his mouth – the same thing he’d told Regina and he needed to stop talking. Cora actually looked interested. “Is that so?” she asked, venom in her voice and it sent a shock of anger through Killian’s whole body. “Fascinating. Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Jones. I’m not counting on this story, nor am I expecting it to make me any money. And that’s really the point of this, isn’t it?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“No? So you’re telling me you spent all that time traipsing around the country to what...provide your readers with uplifting stories about death?”   
  
Killian sighed, backed into a corner and his phone was still sitting on his desk with Emma Swan’s number programmed into it and he just wanted to apologize again. And then maybe get her to go on the record again.

Ethics. Lines. He didn’t really care about either of them.

The realization hit him suddenly and Killian felt the smile shoot across his face, appreciating the way Cora balked at the look. “You’re not making any money, are you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Cora blanched, the grey in her hair almost looking white as soon as she processed the question. Killian laughed. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?” he pressed. “What about ads? There’s shit all over your site, that’s got to be making money.”  
  
“That’s not any of your business.”   
  
“Ah, when you start cutting my stories, I’m going to have to disagree, Cora. That thing could have gotten hits and, more importantly, ad views if you’d given it half a chance. But you’re so convinced any story that Gina comes up with is going to be crap, you pulled it before the e-mail blast even went out. Does your daughter know just how little you believe in her?”   
  
Cora pressed her lips together, dropping the pen and it sounded like an anvil when it landed on the table. “What my daughter thinks is absolutely none of your concern, Mr. Jones.”   
  
“Gina put my story back up.”   
  
“That doesn’t surprise me.”   
  
“Did you not think anyone would notice?”   
  
“I saw numbers I didn’t like,” she shrugged. “I did what I had to.”

Killian wished ideas would stop striking him so quickly – it was jarring. And he hadn’t really slept the night before, had been too focused on typing and editing and deadlines and Emma’s absolutely insane coffee order. And how Ruby knew her if they didn’t go to school together and where she grew up if it wasn’t Maine and he was bordering close to _exploding_ with questions, but he had a story to save first and he knew exactly how to do it.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Killian said, grabbing a chair and falling into with a confidence he absolutely did not have. Cora almost looked like she was about to laugh.

“There’s not anything you can do that I would even find remotely interesting, Mr. Jones. My daughter may find you entertaining and want to cater to your every need, but this is not a good story and I’m sure whatever talent you have could be used elsewhere on the site. Police blotters.”  
  
“There are no police blotters. It’s a national site.”   
  
“Obituaries. Don’t you cater in death?”

Killian licked his lips, crossing his legs slowly. “Not anymore,” he said. “I’m doing this story because that’s why Gina wanted me here and because, despite what expertise you may think your clearly dwindling money supply gives you, this is a good story. So here’s my deal. You let this story sit, you let it run and you let the next three run. We do a feature on one of the players, a focus on their event in Philadelphia and the first competition. If they don’t all reach two-hundred thousand hits, in, let’s say a week after posting, then you can cut them. And you can rip that contract apart.”

Cora’s mouth twitched, one end quirking up as he eyebrows lifted slowly and she rested her hands on the arms of the chair. She stared at him for what felt like a short eternity, calm and even and calculating and Killian tried not to blink.

She moved first.

And he knew he’d won.

“You’d do that?” Cora asked. “Just throw your whole career on one story because you and Regina think it’s good?”  
  
“I know it’s good. And I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. As you’ve so thoughtfully pointed out several times, I don’t have much going for me aside from this job. If this doesn’t work, then I’ll walk.”

Cora regarded him for another moment, that same look on her face – he was getting tired of being stared at like he was just waiting for the attack. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “We’ll see how this story does.”  
  
Killian nodded, anxious to get as far away from that conference room as he possibly could, but there was already someone standing in his way. Ariel was breathing heavily, shoulders heaving as she held on tightly to the doorframe and a flush in her cheeks that made it all but impossible to differentiate between her face and the hair covering it.

“Oh good, you’re here,” she said, eyes landing on Killian and she didn’t even seem to notice the owner of the entire goddamn website on the other side of the room.

“Was I supposed to be somewhere else?” Killian asked.   
  
“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I left it in my office.”

“You should have brought it with you.”  
  
“Yeah, well….” Killian trailed off and Ariel finally realized there was another person in the room. Cora looked deathly. “C’mon,” he continued, wrapping his hand around Ariel’s elbow and directing her back towards the hallway. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Mills.”   
  
“Two hundred thousand?” Cora asked and Killian nearly tripped over Ariel. He nodded, ignoring whatever his stomach was doing. “Done.”   
  
“Done,” he repeated, nudging Ariel again. She kept glancing at him every few steps, wide eyes over her shoulder, but she didn’t actually start the barrage of questions until they reached the elevators.

“What did you do?” she asked intently, turning on him as soon as she’d pressed the button on the wall. “And was that Cora Mills?”  
  
“It’s a good thing you’re so good at coding, A,” Killian said. “You’re not really all that perceptive.”   
  
“Rude. That’s why they pay you the big bucks to write these great, big stories. What did you just agree to?”   
  
“I can’t figure out a situation where that’s actually any of your business.”

“Ok, well, rude 2.0. I’m just worried.”  
  
Killian wasn’t expecting that. Ariel tugged on the front of his shirt, the concern obvious on her face and the bend of her elbow and how she kept bobbing up on her toes like she was trying to make sure she stayed in his eye line. “I know,” he muttered. “And I appreciate it. That’s uh….thank you.”   
  
“No problem,” Ariel said, features softening as soon as the elevator _dinged_ behind her. “You going to spill now or you going to make me break into the security tapes this afternoon?”   
  
“You wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“I mean, probably not, but the threat is still there.”   
  
“I just agreed to two-hundred thousand hits on my next four stories or I walk.”   
  
“Walk?”   
  
“From _The Daily Caller_. Let Cora rip up my contract and my byline and I...figure something else out.”   
  
Ariel took a step back, but they were in an elevator and there wasn’t really anywhere to go. She winced when she hit head on the wall. “Why?” she asked, so quiet Killian could barely hear it. “Why would you do that?”   
  
Because this was important.

Because there was more to this story than a fucking video game and whatever  a payload was. Because Emma called him and demanded to know what had happened and the only thing Killian could think about was how much he wanted her to trust him.

He’d clearly lost his mind.

“Oh,” Ariel said after a few moments of questionably long silence. “I’m really glad I found you then. Did it work? I’ll be honest it doesn’t look like it did, but you know, if you’re doing this then, who knows.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“The car and the swooning and the sweeping her off her feet. She looked pretty pissed when she was downstairs.”   
  
“Ariel, you’re not making any sense,” Killian sighed. The elevator dinged again and he didn’t realize she’d hit the button for the lobby until the doors were opening and he saw a flash of blonde hair pacing a few feet away from him. “Oh, shit,” he breathed, air rushing out of him again and that couldn’t have been healthy.

“Yeah, see, she looks pissed, right?”  
  
Killian nodded dumbly – he was still standing in the corner of the elevator. Ariel threw him an exasperated look over her shoulder, stalking back towards him and actually pulling on the front of his shirt until his legs responded, stumbling forward with his mouth half hanging open.

Emma stopped pacing.

“Found him,” Ariel said brightly, his shirt still bunched up in her fist. “He left his phone on his desk.”  
  
“But my not ability to speak for myself, A,” Killian grumbled, rolling his shoulders to try and loosen her grip. It took another five seconds for her to get the message. “Swan,” he continued and Emma’s eyes snapped up towards his, all green and angry and that same sense of disappointment he’d heard on the phone. “I, uh, I thought you were uptown.”   
  
“It’s a grid system, I know how to walk downtown,” she said.

“You walked down here.”  
  
Emma nodded. “I...this wasn’t really the plan. I was very sure I was just going to be pissed at you all day, maybe kill a few virtual opponents, but, well, my team is angry and I...I ended up here. I didn’t realize I was even heading this direction until I hit Union Square.”

“Long walk.”  
  
“I have legs.”   
  
Killian hummed, far too aware of Ariel’s amused stare as she walked back towards her desk. “Right,” he said. _Banner addition, Jones_. “The story is back up.”   
  
“Yeah?” Emma asked, the question just a bit calmer and maybe this wasn’t going as horribly as he thought it was. Ariel laughed. And maybe this was the worst conversation in the history of the entire goddamn universe.

“Yeah. Gina put it up. It’s uh...it’s been taken care.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
“I told you it would be, Swan.” The words came out like an accusation and Emma backed up slightly, eyes boring a hole on the tiled floor underneath her. She was wearing another NYPD shirt – this one touting some charity baseball game and it barely fit, practically hanging off her shoulders and half of it is covered by her hair, but Killian couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. He kept staring at her.

“Right,” she snapped, licking her lip and twisting a piece of hair around her finger.

Killian sighed – he wished Ariel was twenty-six blocks away. He took a step forward anyway, ducking his head and moving his hand, pressing his thumb under her chin and this was exactly what he promised Regina he wasn’t even thinking about doing.

He was a liar and an asshole and far too invested. Already. It had been two weeks.

“Swan,” Killian muttered. “C’mon, look at me. That wasn’t trying to lord anything over you. That was just…” He took a deep breath and tried to remember a single word in the English language. “I want this to work, love.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, his thumb still tucked underneath her chin and there was no oxygen in that entire building. There couldn’t have been. If there had been, he would have been able to breathe.

The door swung open and they both jumped back, heads snapping up and eyes going wide and Ariel laughed again.

“Incoming,” Robin announced, nodding towards a blur racing across the lobby and sliding towards Killian.

He ducked down out of instinct, grabbing Roland around the waist and swinging him over his shoulder, an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. He should have been more prepared for the knee to the ribs. “K,” Roland shouted in Killian’s ear, gripping the sleeve of his shirt tightly. “Henry said you got him hot chocolate on Friday and you brought him home and you didn’t even come inside!”

Killian leaned back, trying to meet Roland’s gaze, but that was difficult when the seven-year-old was clinging to him like he’d disappeared already and Emma was staring at him like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Robin clicked his tongue meaningfully, glancing between Killian and Ariel while nodding towards Emma.

Ariel nodded. “Yeah,” she mumbled and Killian tried not to groan directly in Roland’s face.

“How come you didn’t come home, K?” Roland pressed.

Emma’s eyes widened again, but she didn’t actually move and Robin shifted behind the receptionist desk, head pressed closely against Ariel’s. Definitely the worst conversation in the history of the world. “It was late, Rol. Henry slept the entire ride home. And he got hot chocolate because he came with me to help me learn how this game works.”  
  
“I know how the game works!”   
  
“Tell you what, you stop trying to choke me and then later today your dad and I can bring you over to Sundaes and…”   
  
“Cones,” Roland interrupted, eyes wide and hands tight on Killian’s shoulders.

Robin groaned. “Thanks a lot,” he mumbled, wadding up a piece of paper to throw it in Killian’s direction. Ariel swatted at his arm, a quiet reprimand on her lips and, shit, Emma was still standing there.

Roland picked up on the extra, unknown person as soon as he stopped detailing his ice cream order, kicking Killian in the thigh when he tried to turn around. “You’re friends with Mrs. Nolan,” he said easily and the entire lobby seemed to blink at the same time.

“Yeah,” Emma said slowly, eyes flitting towards Killian. He couldn’t shrug with a kid draped over his shoulders. “How did you know that?”  
  
“She has pictures in her classroom.”   
  
“Smart kid.”   
  
“And far too perceptive for his own good,” Robin muttered, taking a step towards Emma and extending his hand. “Robin Locksley. His,” he nodded in Killian and Roland’s direction, “dad. And you must be Emma.”   
  
She nodded, taking the hand and shaking it quickly with a smile on her face. “Yeah. And whose father are you exactly? There are two of them over there.”   
  
Robin barked out a laugh and Ariel tried to turn whatever sound flew out of her mouth into something that didn’t resemble an actual cackle. It didn’t work. Emma’s smile widened. God, Killian was absolutely screwed.

“That’s up for debate sometimes,” Robin said, pulling Roland away from Killian and dropping his actual son back on his feet. “As far as whose birth certificate I actually signed, only the younger one. Although we are missing one.”

“Where is Henry?” Killian asked, desperate to redirect this conversation to something he could control. And maybe get Emma out of the lobby.

“With the previously mentioned Mrs. Nolan. I thought he’d want to sleep all day, but I guess he’s still riding some kind of video game wave or whatever. He woke up before any of us today.”  
  
“He’s a good kid,” Emma said. “He’s really good at the game too. Plus he was willing to wear our ridiculous team t-shirt out in public, so he automatically gets several hundred points for that.”   
  
Robin grinned. “I didn’t think it was ridiculous. He wore it to school today. Probably will for the next week. At least.”   
  
Emma blinked – clearly not expecting the dedicated fandom of an eleven-year-old – and Killian knew, no matter what happened with hits and ad revenue and Cora, he’d made the right decision. Two weeks and _impossible_ be damned.

He was going to fix this whole goddamn thing.

“You want to get some coffee, Swan?” Killian asked and, that time, the lobby seemed to freeze.

She pulled her lip behind her teeth and Roland started talking about ice cream again. “Now?” Emma asked.

“Sure.”  
  
“There was a Starbucks around the corner. I almost stopped, but I was fueled on frustration.”   
  
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”   
  
“Ok,” she nodded.

“Ok.”

God, he needed to say something else. He needed the seven-year-old next to him to stop trying to punch through his thigh. He needed Robin to stop staring at him like he was already composing the very detailed text he was going to send Will as soon as Killian walked out the doors.

He needed to move. He didn’t move.

“Go,” Ariel mumbled, not quite able to grasp the concept of whispering. “The building won’t fall down without you to sit in your office.”

Emma laughed under her breath, Killian’s eyes darting back towards her and he should probably buy Ariel flowers or an Edible Arrangement or something. “Ice cream later, Rol,” Killian said, taking a step towards the doors and resting his hand on Emma’s shoulder. She didn’t flinch. “C’mon love, I’m woefully under-caffeinated.”  
  
There were actually two Starbucks on either side of the block, but Emma directed to them around the corner like she knew where they were going and Killian didn’t argue. And she didn’t say anything about his hand – either one –  his left arm on his side and not behind his back.

“Do you,” Emma started, wavering slightly at the end of the not-so-long line. “Do you want me to get it?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “If we’re keeping track of who owes who coffee, Swan, then I think I’m several trips in your debt at this point.”   
  
“I think you’re trying to get coffee with me more than once.”   
  
“You’ve ruined the entire plan now.”   
  
Emma kept toying with her hair – twisting it around her fingers and letting it fall back over her t-shirt and it might have been the most distracting thing he’d ever seen. “Yeah, I’ve got a tendency to do that. Alright, well, you can get this round then. I’ll get a table.”

She reached up, squeezing his arm and Killian barely had time to register that before she was four steps away and there was a person behind the counter demanding orders and first names.

It wasn’t nearly as crowded in that completely different Starbucks, far bigger than the one in Shubert Alley and no coordinated t-shirts, but it felt more important and it seemed to take forever to walk to the table in the corner.

“You remembered,” Emma said, taking a sip of the coffee and Killian tried to sit down like he was capable of bending his legs at the knees.

“It’s a pretty memorable order Swan,” he laughed. “Although I was nervous about the actual pumps of cinnamon. I couldn’t remember if it was three or four. And…” He dropped a container in between them, smiling at Emma’s quiet gasp. “Cinnamon.”  
  
“Did you steal this?”   
  
“I have every intention of putting it back.”   
  
“Pilfering.”   
  
“Pirating. Borrowing.”   
  
“Sounds like stealing.”   
  
“You know, maybe, I’ll steal it now, just to prove I can.”   
  
Emma quirked an eyebrow. “You sound awfully confident.That’s a pretty ridiculous amount of cinnamon.”   
  
“I think you’re doubting me, Swan.”   
  
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said softly. “Well, I mean, I would try not to do that anymore. Going forward. Are we still going forward?”   
  
“That’s entirely up to you, love. You just have to trust me. I really do know what I’m doing.”   
  
Emma took another sip of coffee, grimacing when it burnt her tongue. “I’m not questioning that,” she said, twisting her lips. “I’m just...I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”   
  
“We’ve been over this. It’s a good story. You’re a good story.”   
  
God, he needed to stop talking. He needed to drink his coffee and stare at his shoes and then check on the hits on his story. He needed to stop saying more than he meant to. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“I don’t know about that,” Emma mumbled.

Killian leaned forward, trying to meet her gaze and infuse some sort of confidence in it. “I do,” he said. “Tell me about Philadelphia.”  
  
“Do I get a follow-up?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
Emma smiled, chewing on her lip and drank at least half her coffee before she started to talk again. “Philadelphia is big and important and a chance for publicity and time on the League site and maybe a spotlight or something,” she explained. “And it’s also mandatory. Which is both good and bad.”   
  
“Bad? How?”   
  
“We have no money,” Emma shrugged. “I mean, that’s not true. We have money, but we don’t have a ton of money and most of the other teams are sponsored and we’re just kind of rag-tag. Don’t mention about how good that is for the story, I’ve seen sports movies, I know how this works.”   
  
“First you’re seeing through my coffee plan and now you’re taking the words right out of my mouth, Swan. I feel like I’m not even part of this conversation.”   
  
“Elsa mentioned something about a plan and maybe her parents, but I kind of had this buzzing in my head as soon as I got off the phone with David and I barely even heard her before I was walking downtown.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Killian said, stomach lurching just a bit. “Is that how you found out about the story? David told you?”   
  
Emma nodded. “He totally wants to kill you.”

“Do you?”  
_  
Stop talking. Stop asking questions. Drink your goddamn coffee_.

“Nah,” Emma said, smiling softly at him. It made his pulse pick up and he tried not to lean forward again. There was a table in the way. “Did you figure out what happened? Glitch? Or internet outage? That doesn’t even make any sense.”  
  
“You’d know more about that than me,” Killian said. “And, uh, no. It was...the woman who owns the site. She’s not my biggest fan.”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows shifted, rolling her shoulders as she sat up a bit straighter and the chair scraped across the floor when she moved. “Huh,” she muttered. “Well, that makes this kind of difficult doesn’t it?”   
  
“No,” he lied. It made it impossible. “She’s barely here anyway. She doesn’t like coming downtown. Thinks it’s dirtier down here or something.”   
  
“She sounds like a delight.”   
  
“She is.”   
  
“I’ve got at least twenty-six questions,” Emma said, sounding like she was admitting to something. She shifted on her seat, tugging her phone out of her pocket and dropping it on the table. Right next to the cinnamon. “I typed them out.”   
  
Killian laughed, some of the tension he’d been holding onto dissipating as soon as he saw the look on Emma’s face – stuck somewhere between confident and cautious and maybe something that might have been _belief_. “That is incredibly efficient, love.”   
  
“I didn’t want to forget.”   
  
“Ask then.”   
  
“There are really a lot of them.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Ask them anyway.”

Emma twisted her head, like she was debating the pros and cons of the conversation, but she grabbed her phone anyway – hitting a few buttons and squaring her shoulders to him. “How do you know Regina Mills? And why do you have nicknames for everyone?”  
  
“Regina is a professional moniker,” Killian laughed. “Or that’s what she’d tell you. When I met her there wasn’t much of a professional moniker to work for. She was covering entertainment for the _Daily News_ and drinking a ridiculous amount of espresso.”   
  
“Is that where you get your weird espresso habits from?”

Killian nodded. “It’s totally her fault. I didn’t even drink anything except shit black coffee until I was eighteen.”  
  
“And that’s when you met Regina?”   
  
“Yup. She was between bylines, needed coffee and barreled into the store. She just kind of...took over from there?”   
  
“Are you asking me for confirmation?” Emma smiled, but Killian was halfway down some sort of twisted memory lane and Regina had shown up just a few months after Liam got sent overseas, his first out-of-country assignment and Cora hadn’t been lying – Regina more or less adopted him. She got him the freelance gig at the _Daily News_ after he graduated.

“Killian?” Emma continued and his neck actually cracked when he moved it. “So you met Regina while you in school?”  
  
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, she was already working. Don’t tell her, but she’s older than me. She doesn’t appreciate being reminded of that.”   
  
“And she wanted to run a website?” Emma grimaced when he glanced at her, certain of the confusion on his face. “Mary Margaret works in a very gossip’y school, apparently.”   
  
“Um,” he stammered, not sure how to explain any of this. This was depressing. His whole goddamn history was depressing. “Her fiancé was killed. Played a lot of shows downtown and the police said it was a wrong place, wrong time sort of thing, but that was just an excuse and...Regina did not take it well. She stopped covering any of that, left the _Daily News_ and started at Mills a week later.”   
  
Emma widened her eyes, the gasp she let out barely audible in the Starbucks that was empty except for them. “So, Robin…”   
  
“That’s actually a much better story. Well, kind of. He’s old Navy, knew…”

Shit. Emma blinked, tilting her head when Killian just trailed off. “He knew who?” she asked.

“My brother,” Killian answered, barely getting the words out before he snapped his mouth shut. A muscle in Emma’s jaw tensed, lips pressed together tightly and they couldn’t just have a _normal_ conversation. “He knew my brother,” Killian repeated. “Served with him in the Pacific and so he met Regina when he came back stateside. She’d already adopted Henry and Robin had lost his wife a year before. Rol was barely walking. But they saw each other and there were harps and rainbows or something and here we are, painfully in love and happy endings”   
  
“You sound a little bitter,” Emma pointed out.

“I’m not.”

“No?”  
  
“Why would I be?”

Emma shrugged. “Just seems like something normal people want. The happy endings and the in love and all that. Maybe without the painful part. You know my brother and M’s have been together since they were fourteen?”  
  
He smiled at the bit of information, but Emma looked stunned – gripping her coffee cup tightly like she couldn't believe what she’d just said. “Off the record, love,” Killian muttered and she looked like she took a deep breath.

“Charmer,” she accused.

“Just having a conversation. Ask me another question.”  
  
“Fine. You’re from New York.”   
  
“That’s not a question. And we’ve done this before.” Emma rolled her eyes and he knew he was grinning like an idiot, knew it absolutely would not work and he definitely did not care. “I am from New York,” Killian agreed. “Uptown. For a very long time.”   
  
“But not for awhile now, right?”   
  
“Also true, Swan. I left when I was twenty-two and came back...two and a half weeks ago. It’s the first time I’ve really been in the city for more than a few days in years. I’m mostly here for birthdays and some major holidays and once when Henry broke his leg.”   
  
“Henry broke his leg?”   
  
Killian hummed, memories of a frantic Regina on the phone and a hospital and he’d driven overnight from Boston in a car he rented for far too much money so he could sit on a plastic chair in a waiting room. It was the only time he’d ever seen Regina cry.

“So now you’re back,” Emma said. Another statement.

“So now I’m back.”

“With a family of reporters and nicknames and painfully cute kids.”  
  
His stomach did something impossible at that – another statement and maybe the truth and Emma looked straight at him when she said it, the certainty in her voice making his heart falter. “Eh, I don’t know, Swan,” Killian murmured. “It’s more a cushion. From a very, very high fall.”   
  
“Yeah, I get that,” she said softly, trying to drink out of a coffee cup that was decidedly empty.

There was more to the story.

There was _a lot_ more to the story, but Emma’s phone buzzed, shaking the entire table and they’d both run out of coffee already.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, grabbing her phone and swiping her thumb across the screen, scowling at it like it had personally offended her.

“Lucas?” Killian asked and Emma laughed.

“How’d you know?”  
  
“A very educated guess.”   
  
“Elsa’s got some kind of Philadelphia financing plan and my presence was apparently needed five minutes ago.”

“Ah, well, let’s keep the number of people calling for my head to a minimum,” he said, nodding towards the door. “I’ll get you a car.”  
  
“I can take the train.”   
  
“And melt to death on the R? Nah, c’mon, just put it on my coffee tab.”   
  
“What’s the exchange rate for cabs to lattes?” Emma asked, following him back towards the block and laughing softly when he thrust his arm towards the street. His left arm. God damn. “That was actually really impressive,” she said as a cab skidded to a stop in front of them a moment later.

“Years of actual practice,” Killian said, but this all felt like it was spiraling a bit and he was barely treading water in the middle of Broadway. He was blocks away from any sort of water.

“Accept my compliment for what it’s worth.”  
  
“Quite a bit, actually.”   
  
Emma’s smile shifted for half a moment – moving between amusement to disbelief and back into something that Killian couldn’t put a name to, but seemed to settle right in the space between his rib cage. Fuck ethics. He wanted to kiss her.

A lot.

He wanted to kiss her a lot.

“Thank you,” Emma said softly, reaching her hand up to rest on the front of his t-shirt. “For the cab. And, you know, the story. Mostly the story.”  
  
“That’s my job, Swan.”   
_  
Stop talking. Stop thinking about kissing her. Kiss. Her. _

“Right, right,” she stuttered. “Of course it is. For the story and the hits. Obviously. I’ll um...Philadelphia? In a couple weeks? Do you go to that?”  
  
“You tell me.”   
  
“It’s a big deal. If you can go. I mean it’s the weekend.”   
  
“News happens all the time, love, I’m used to working weekends.”   
  
“Right,” Emma muttered again and the cab driver was getting impatient. “Ok, well, I’ve got strategy to fine tune and everything so I’ll…”   
  
“Here,” Killian interrupted, pulling out the container he’d stuffed into his back pocket on his way out of Starbucks. Emma’s eyes widened and her smile shifted back into disbelief, but there was also something that felt a bit like _understanding_ there and maybe they could just be friends.

Sure.

“Did you actually steal me the cinnamon?” Emma asked.

Killian nodded. “Told you I could do it.”  
  
“Pirate.”   
  
“Eh, in my spare time.”

Her fingers were still impossibly cold when they brushed over his, but her smile was the opposite as soon as she took the container out of his hand. “I’ll see you later,” Emma said, sliding into the backseat of the cab and leaving Killian on the sidewalk with his stomach still in Naval-grade knots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Killian Jones does not cope with his stories getting removed from prominent websites well at all. And he really, really, really wants to kiss Emma Swan. Those are kind of his dominant personality traits going forward. 
> 
> As always, thank you to guys for clicking and reading and having real human emotions about this mess of words. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	8. Chapter 8

It took Emma one block to realize that there were few things she’d hated more than Manhattan in the rain.

It was...disgusting. And cramped. And everyone kept hitting her with an umbrella. She was going to be bruised by the time she made it to the 6-train. If she ever made it to the 6-train. There were too many people on Lexington Ave – every single one of them carrying umbrellas and she’d already stepped in one puddle, gasping loudly when the water crested the top of her sneaker.

She didn’t even want to think about what had hit her foot.

Emma repressed a shudder, jogging down the block and wondering if she should just cave and buy one of those umbrellas being hawked on the corner, but she didn’t have cash and for some kind of _center of the universe_ city, it certainly required a shit ton of cash.

She got hit by six more umbrellas on the Subway platform.

Emma groaned, trying to find a spot in the corner of the train that wasn’t already packed with people and Mary Margaret owed her for coming downtown to help with whatever school-related emergency she’d texted about.

And that was a giant lie.

Emma owed Mary Margaret several lifetimes worth of IOU’s and repayment and she was still sleeping on that stupid air mattress because she wasn’t entirely certain of how to find an apartment or how to pay for an apartment and, nearly a month after landing on her friend’s doorstep, she barely had time to think about anything except the game.

Or what would happen in Philadelphia.

She kept thinking about Philadelphia.

She kept _worrying_ about Philadelphia.

And she nearly missed her stop.

“Oh, shit,” Emma mumbled, drawing a glare from at least three women sitting on the row opposite her. “Sorry, sorry,” she continued, pushing her way through the jam-packed train and nearly tripping over an umbrella. “Yeah, yeah, I’m just….”

She nearly fell out of the barely-open doors, stumbling back onto the platform and it was, somehow, raining even more out now.

Emma was drenched by the time she made it to Mary Margaret’s school, pieces of hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck and the security guard at the front door eyed her warily as soon as she took a step towards him.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his meticulous uniform seemingly repelling rain under the small awning in front of the door. There was a puddle forming under Emma’s feet. And both her sneakers were soaked now.

“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “I’m here to see Mary Margaret. She called me?” The security guard furrowed his eyebrows, the crease in between somehow more insulting than any of the umbrellas she’d been hit with that day and Emma tried not to roll her eyes. “Mrs. Nolan,” she continued. “Teaches fourth grade. Probably wearing some kind of adorable dress with matching heels. Not nearly as soaking wet as I am.”

“Emma?”

She nearly fell over – and falling in a rainwater puddle of her own making would have made sense, all things considered. It had been that kind of week. A week removed from the story debacle and the coffee and the cinnamon she may or may not have actually put on the table in her compound in the corner of the living room and Emma had nothing except radio silence from Killian Jones.

She wasn’t frustrated.

That would have been absurd. They were...allies? Teammates? Maybe friends? There was no more to it. Of course not. That was another lie. She should stop lying to herself like that, she was going to drive herself insane.

But really, he should come to practices, right? Observe or write or something. That’s how it worked. She thought that’s how it worked. She had no idea.

And she hadn’t texted him either.

God, no wonder Ruby kept muttering to Belle and Elsa in various corners of Granny’s dining room for the last week. They could probably see Emma’s impending insanity on her face.

And the story had been good. _Really good_. Award-winning good.

She should have said something – she should have texted, should have _called_ , wanted to talk to him far more than she was willing to admit.

“Emma?” Henry asked again and Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, jerked out of thoughts of Killian Jones and the number she’d finally put her contacts. “Are you ok? What are you doing here?”  
  
She shook her head, blinking when a few droplets of water threatened her eyes. “I’m fine,” she promised. “You haven’t seen Mary...Mrs. Nolan, have you? She texted me to come down here and there was some kind of classroom emergency.”   
  
“Nah, but I could bring you over there, if you want.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Sure. I was heading that direction anyway.”   
  
“Thanks,” Emma breathed, shoulders falling just a bit as she took another step forward, only to come up short in front of the questionably large hand of the security guard in front of her. “For real?” she sighed. “He obviously knows who I am. School’s over. I’m not trying to steal kids or anything.”   
  
Henry snorted, pulling his lips back behind her teeth so he wouldn’t laugh out loud, but the security guard didn't budge – there was no name tag, Mary Margaret probably knew his entire life history.

Emma just wanted to get out of the rain.

“She’s really ok,” Henry said, nodding towards Emma and she could only imagine what she looked like. Probably some kind of deranged, half-drowned rat who was joking about stealing kids. She shouldn’t have said that.

“I can show you the text if you want,” Emma muttered, trying to tug her phone out of her back pocket and it was probably water damaged at this point. It was like a goddamn monsoon outside. Maybe Mary Margaret had an umbrella – or an extra umbrella, she definitely had an extra umbrella.

The security guard looked at her, eyes narrowed and face impassive, but he finally nodded back towards the hallway behind him and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she muttered, careful not to step on his toes or drip disgusting rain water on him. “I promise, I’ll leave with Mary Margaret so you know I’m not a threat.”

He made some kind of dismissive noise in the back of his throat and Henry was laughing openly now, eyes bright as wrapped his thumb through one of his belt loops. Emma froze – far too acquainted with _that_ move already and she really wished she’d asked more questions in that Starbucks, her curiosity regarding Killian Jones and the two kids who seemed thrilled with his return to New York practically bubbling over.

“C’mon Henry,” Emma muttered, hand falling on the kid’s shoulder out of instinct and he didn’t try to roll it off. He just grinned at her and she hadn’t noticed the t-shirt before. He was wearing the team t-shirt again.

“So, it’s raining, huh?” he asked.

“Nothing gets by you, kid.”  
  
Henry rolled his eyes, but Emma’s hand was still on her shoulder and she was leaving a trail of water behind her. “Were you just standing in it though? I mean you’re…”

“Drenched,” Emma finished. “And, no, I took the train. But I forgot the 6 is a couple blocks away and I didn’t have an umbrella and those ones on the corner look like absolute garbage.”  
  
“Oh, they are,” Henry said matter-of-factly and Emma lifted her eyebrows. He shrugged. “I’m just saying. Don’t waste your ten bucks. One gust of wind and you’re out an umbrella again.”   
  
“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“I’ve lived in the city my whole life. I know how it works. And one time, a couple years ago, Hook brought me to the High Line so we could see the water and the ships and everything and it started to pour. There weren’t any trains over there yet, so he bought umbrellas from some guy on the street and they broke on 10th Ave and we had to walk back to Penn in the rain.”  
  
Emma tried to process all of that – he’d mentioned that before, kind of. Robin had been _old Navy_ and served with his brother and she hadn’t really put two and two together until Henry mentioned ships and the water. His brother had been in the Navy too.

And Killian had left New York when he was twenty-two. There was something there – a story. God, she had more questions.

“It was super fun,” Henry continued, seemingly unaware of whatever Emma’s brain was trying to connect. “There were a bunch of puddles and 33rd Street got all flooded and mom wouldn’t let Hook come in the apartment.”  
  
“So you’ve known Killian for a really long time then?” Emma asked and she needed to write all this down. There were far too many moving parts.

Henry nodded enthusiastically. “Forever.”  
  
“Right.”   
  
She couldn’t do the math in her head. She had no idea how old Killian was. Jeez, that was a basic question. It was good she wasn’t the journalist in this...whatever it was. That stupid voice in the back of her mind screamed something very particularly and Emma tried to ignore it, but it was there and shouting and Killian must be in his thirties.

And Henry was eleven. Eleven’ish? That meant Regina must have adopted Henry just before Killian left New York. Emma’s head hurt.

“Right,” Emma repeated, nodding slightly and Henry looked a bit more cautious than he’d been the entire walk down the hallway. “And you’re excited he’s back in New York?”  
  
This was cheating. Or twisting the rules of whatever game they were playing. She was going to outside sources and she really should have just _called Killian_.

Henry nodded again, lower lip jutted out slightly and she’d only met Robin briefly, but the kid in front of her was a mix of him and Killian and it was just a bit disarming. “Yeah, of course,” he said easily. “Mom’s been trying to get him to come back forever. And Robin’s psyched because he can finally get Hook to write something good and Uncle Will’s trying to get him to move into his apartment building.”  
  
“What?”   
  
She half shouted the word and the eleven-year-old in front of her stumbled back a bit, stunned by the question and the volume and Emma bit her lip tightly. The puddle at her feet had turned into more of a lake. “Hook’s been staying in a hotel this whole time,” Henry said slowly. “That’s what Mom and Robin have said. I don’t...I’m not really supposed to hear that I don’t think.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
“But Uncle Will lives in Gramercy and Hook wants to stay uptown because…”   
  
“That’s where he grew up.”   
  
Henry’s eyes widened. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “He likes staying up there. He did when he’d come for my birthday and stuff and then he’d bring me and Rol places he used to go with Liam.”   
  
“Liam,” Emma repeated dumbly and Mary Margaret probably thought she’d been run over by a Subway at this point. She hoped they were close to her classroom and then reprimanded herself for never having seen Mary Margaret’s classroom before.

“I never met him,” Henry said. “But Mom knew him and so did Robin and there are pictures of him with Hook at home. They don’t talk about him a lot in front of Hook. I think it makes him kind of sad.”  
  
Emma swallowed and this was far too much information to deal with while her shirt was still dripping rainwater on the ground. Her sneakers actually _squished_ when she shifted her weight on her heels and Henry looked worried he’d said too much.

She was the absolute worst.

“Hey,” Emma said suddenly, determined to change the subject and turn whatever look was on Henry’s face into some kind of distant memory. “Nice shirt, by the way.”  
  
Henry’s entire expression changed – like a switch had been flicked and the smile on his face sent a rush of something down Emma’s spine. It felt a bit like endearment for the kid in front of her and maybe the adult supervision in his life.

She ignored that second part.

“Thanks,” he said, bobbing on his feet. “I was looking at the list yesterday and the teams that qualified automatically aren’t very good. You guys are totally going to wreck.”  
  
Huh, maybe that was something people said. Emma grinned. “We’re certainly going to try,” she promised. “You know we’re going to do a live thing on the League site in Philadelphia.”   
  
Henry gaped at her and Emma couldn’t believe she was telling him any of this. She hadn’t even told Mary Margaret or David yet – or her team. But Henry was wearing a slightly faded Widow’s Wail t-shirt and staring at her like she invented video games and maybe she was trying to get a few metaphorical brownie points.

“Really?” he asked loudly. Emma felt her grin widen, nodding in agreement. “When? Can I watch? Can I come to Philadelphia? Hook said he was going to go, he was telling Mom about it a couple days ago.”  
  
“Wait, what? Killian said that?”   
  
“Yeah,” Henry said slowly and they’d fallen back off course. “I mean, well, I wasn’t…”   
  
“You’ve got an eavesdropping habit, don’t you?” Emma grinned, leaning forward again to rest her hand on Henry’s shoulder. He mumbled something under his breath, twisting his lips and the smile was more like a smirk and far too much like Killian and Emma needed to get a grip.

“He was telling her it was important and he’d figure out a way to get there and Uncle Will wanted to go too.”

That caught Emma short. She hadn’t even really considered Will Scarlet in this increasingly complicated equation, but he seemed part of the package deal and nearly just as interested as Killian and the pictures really were good.

There’d been an entire goddamn gallery.

Like they were famous.

“They’re both going to come to Philadelphia?” Emma asked, well aware that she was asking an eleven-year-old for confirmation about the journalistic comings and goings of two grown men who were, probably, capable of booking their own hotels and typing an address into a GPS. Particularly when one of those grown men was, apparently, living in a hotel.

“I think they want to,” Henry said. Emma hummed, trying to piece together all of the information and she barely heard what Henry mumbled.

“Sorry, sorry, what did you say, Henry?”  
  
“I was just wondering if you could help me with...well I’ve got a class and we’ve got to talk to someone who’s doing a job we want to do and, uh, you’ve got a pretty cool job.”   
  
He bit his lip tightly, stuffing one hand into his pocket and tugging nervously on his hair and Emma wasn’t sure her heart was actually still beating. It felt like several of internal organs had just all stopped working at once. She exhaled loudly, grimacing when her toes pressed into the small pool of water that collected in the front of her sneaker.

“Hook said I should ask you a couple days ago,” Henry mumbled, eyes still more interested in the tiled floor underneath him, “but you’ve got to answer some questions and stuff and I didn’t…”  
  
“Of course I’ll do it,” Emma said, somehow finding her voice when she was fairly certain there was a lump in her throat the size of a very large boulder.

“Yeah?”

“Definitely. I bet you ask better questions than Killian.”  
  
“Eh, he and Robin helped me come up with some of them yesterday. Hook said he’d text you or something about it, but then you showed up here and I figured…” He shrugged, a hopeful expression on her face and Emma felt her heart soften for the kid in front of her and, suddenly, another piece clicked into place.

“You figured right,” Emma said quickly, squeezing his shoulder and brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead. “I’d love to do it. And you’re totally right. I’ve got a pretty cool job.”  
  
“I think I’d make a pretty good pro.”   
  
“I know you would. You teach Killian how to play the game yet?”   
  
“Kind of. He’s not great at the whole keyboard, mouse thing.” Henry ducked his eyes again and she really was the worst.

He didn’t talk about it. He hadn’t said a single thing about it since that very first day in Granny’s and if Emma drifted back through every moment, she realized, more often than not, he kept his left arm plastered to his side or twisted slightly behind his back and her stomach lurched at the idea that Killian could be nervous about anything.

“I kind of remember it,” Henry mumbled softly and Emma’s breath hitched. “We had to go stay with Cora. Mom was really upset and Robin was scared, he kept trying to hit things. They left in the middle of the night when Mom’s phone rang and they were gone for a couple of days and Hook stayed with us for a while. He was angry. I don’t think he knows I know that.”

“How old were you?” Emma asked, voice just a bit breathless and this was _definitely_ cheating.

“Five. Rol could barely walk. Mom and Robin had only been married for a couple of months. Hook flew into New York for the wedding and left the next day. He had to go back to work.”  
  
Emma tried to do the math in her head again –  God, she was bad at math. A five-year-old Henry meant that was nearly six years ago and, _oh shit_ , that was New Orleans. And for someone who knew very little about Killian Jones, _human being_ , she seemed to know a lot about his resume.

He’d won all those awards in New Orleans.

“Emma,” Henry said, slipping on the massive body of water in the hallway when he took a step forward. “You ok? You looked like you were thinking. Hook does the same thing.”  
  
“What?” She needed to come up with another word. Henry smiled.

“Yeah, when he’s trying to figure out the game or decide what question to ask next. It’s like his mind can’t move fast enough for everything he’s trying to think about. Mom says he’s got no poker face, but it’s just because he’s trying to think about everything at once.”  
  
Jeez – the entire Mills-Locksley clan was far too smart for its own good. “When’s your paper due?” Emma asked, another blatantly obvious subject change. Henry realized that too.

“Not for awhile. A couple weeks after you guys go to Philadelphia. It's like our big project thing.”  
  
“Ok, well, show me where M’s...Mrs. Nolan’s classroom is and I can give you my number or something? Is that weird?”   
  
“You thinking that I don’t know that Mrs. Nolan has a first name or the number thing?”

Emma scoffed, following Henry down the hallway towards another corner and she would have been able to figure out which room was Mary Margaret’s with her eyes closed. It just smelled like vanilla and honey and _home_ and Emma smiled in spite of whatever nerves she had about the perceptive nature of Henry Mills.

“This is it,” he said, nodding towards the open door. It was covered in leaves and Mary Margaret had hand painted each one a few nights before, promising the _kids will notice, Emma_ when asked why she was putting in the effort.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Emma muttered. The quiet tap of heels announced Mary Margaret’s arrival, her phone in her hand and an anxious expression on her face as soon as she looked at Emma.

“Did you walk here?” she asked and Henry choked on his laugh. Mary Margaret turned towards the sound, eyes widening at the sight of the kid in front of her or maybe at how wet Emma’s hair was still.

“I asked her the same question,” Henry laughed. “It’s raining out.”  
  
Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, the _mom_ practically radiating off her as she tugged on the end of Emma’s sleeve. “Yeah, I can see that. Where have you been? I texted you like an hour ago. I was actually just about to leave.”   
  
“I thought there was an emergency,” Emma said. “And I ran into another friend on my way here. Who do you think helped me find your room?”   
  
Henry blushed, scuffing his foot on the floor and Emma grinned at Mary Margaret – who looked a bit stunned to see any of this happening. “It wasn’t a big deal.”   
  
“It was definitely a big deal,” Emma argued. “Here, you have a phone?” Henry nodded and she held her hand out expectantly, typing in her number quickly when he dropped it in her hand. “Just send me a text or something when you want to talk and make sure you tell Killian your questions are better than his.”   
  
“I haven’t even asked any questions yet.”   
  
“I’ve got a ridiculous amount of faith.”

Henry beamed at her, nodding as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket. “Ok,” he said, the letters jumbled together. “And maybe...maybe I could come to a practice? Ruby said I could when were at the qualifier.”  
  
“Ah, then who am I to argue that?”   
  
“Cool!”

“We’ve got to get you a better shirt too. That one’s looking a little worse for wear.”  
  
Mary Margaret looked like she was watching the final of the US Open – head darting back and forth and mouth going slack and Emma could see her shoulders moving as she tried to catch her breath. She kind of knew the feeling.

“Thanks,” Henry exclaimed, bobbing on the balls of his feet. Roland must have gotten that from him. “Ok, ok, yeah, that’d be awesome!”  
  
“Deal,” Emma said. “You better go back to wherever you’re supposed to be though. You’ve been gone awhile.”   
  
Henry mumbled a disagreement, but Mary Margaret shifted into _teacher pose_ – arms crossed lightly over her chest and one eyebrow raised – and it only took a few moments and one quick _see you, Emma_ and _bye Mrs. Nolan_ before he was dashing down the hallway, a blur of team-branded t-shirt and dark hair.

“What just happened here?” Mary Margaret asked, staring at Emma like she’d been replaced with some kind of Cyberman-type doppelgänger.

Emma shook her head slowly. “I honestly have no idea. What was your emergency?”  
  
“I needed to move a bunch of stuff out of my classroom and I wanted some help.”   
  
“So you called me for manual labor? That’s not really my forte.”   
  
“Yeah, well, David had to work,” Mary Margaret shrugged, nodding back towards the classroom. Emma followed her, leaning on the edge of her desk and if the door had been typical _Mary Margaret Nolan, teacher extraordinaire_ , then the inside of the room was all of that times sixty-two thousand. There were more leaves and hand-written posters and motivational quotes and an actual chalk drawing on the board like the whole thing had come directly out of a magazine detailing what the perfect fourth-grade classroom looked like.

“M’s,” Emma said, stunned and not quite sure what to look at. “Did you do all of this yourself?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “David helped a bit when he could, but he’s been busy with work and that new case and usually Ruby has a lot of opinions on the decorations, but you guys have been so swamped with League stuff. I’ve just kind of...worked my way through the last couple of weeks.”   
  
Emma felt a flash of guilt shoot down her spine and she really was the worst friend in the world. Mary Margaret had offered up most of her living room, bought a plastic partition off the internet and made sure there was always _fancy_ hot chocolate in the cabinet and Emma hadn’t even considered offering to help with anything classroom-related.

“Stop that,” Mary Margaret chastised, flicking her finger at Emma’s shoulder.

“What?”  
  
“You’re blaming yourself for me decorating and organizing my own classroom on my own. That’s insane, you know that right?”   
  
“Well, that’s one way to put it.”   
  
“That’s the only way to put it. This is not your job. You have a job. One you need to focus a lot of attention on and plan for.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean you get pushed onto some back-burner, M’s,” Emma muttered, bumping her arm against Mary Margaret’s and it all felt decades before, sitting in that bedroom and trying to figure out everything. “Thank you,” she added softly, resting her head on Mary Margaret’s shoulder.

“What for?”  
  
“Everything. The whole nine-yards of it all. From the very beginning.”   
  
Mary Margaret hummed, hair brushing over Emma’s when she tilted her head to the side. “That’s not ever something you have to thank me for,” she whispered. “Either of us.”   
  
“Even so. I don’t think I ever actually have. That’s kind of shitty, isn’t it?”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret said quickly, voice just a bit more intent than Emma had ever heard it. “The opposite of that. We’re not doing it for thanks or anything more than just you being happy. I know...well, it can’t be much fun sleeping on our floor, but I’m really glad you’re here. Again. I missed you.”   
  
Emma couldn’t cry in the middle of Mary Margaret’s classroom. That would have been a step too far and she’d already joked about stealing children. “You can’t just say that, M’s,” she mumbled. “And I’m glad I’m here too. Plus your floor is, like, questionably comfortable. Why do you even have an air mattress? I never asked.”   
  
“David wanted to go camping once.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked, laughter bubbling out of the very center of her and she was freezing. Her clothes were starting to dry, but they were only halfway there – crusted slightly by whatever was in New York City rain and she was probably going to contract some sort of deadly disease from her sneakers.

Mary Margaret nodded, rolling her eyes fondly. “Yup,” she said. “Three or four years ago. Thought it’d be fun to go back home and...sleep outside? I don’t know. I was ok with it, but then he realized that there was going to be a lot of planning involved and, well, it was just easier to come visit you.”  
  
Emma traced back through memories and three or four years ago would have put her in, at least, four different cities, but Mary Margaret and David had come to Charleston one summer and she’d been playing League of Legends and trying to stream and they’d gone to Waterfront Park and the picture of the three of them was framed on the wall in Emma’s compound.

“You are far too nice for your own good, you know,” Emma muttered, kicking her feet out in front of her as Mary Margaret stuffed several loads of paperwork into her bag. “You should be studied, both of you.”  
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”   
  
“That’s how it was intended. Hey, what’s this new case, by the way? He’s been working crazy hours for the last week.”

Emma had barely seen David since the story came out and Ruby had announced – in the middle of a rather _aggressive_ Rainbow Road race – that Neal was the team captain of the top team in the league and he’d been out of the apartment before she’d woken up each of the last four days.

Mary Margaret shrugged, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I actually don’t know,” she admitted and Emma felt a flicker of concern spark in the back of her brain. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“That’s….weird.”   
  
“I know. I mean, there are rules and open investigations can be shady, I guess, particularly when things are still up in the air, but usually he at leasts gives me some kind of idea so I won’t spend my entire day worrying.”   
  
“Are you?”   
  
“Why do you think I actually painted all these leaves?” Mary Margaret asked, waving one hand around the meticulously themed classroom. “That was a very detailed distraction.”   
  
Emma winced. “Jeez, M’s. You know you can tell me these things before you go off on some kind of arts and crafts bender. I’m usually pretty good at working information out of David. I’ve got all those embarrassing stories to threaten him with.”   
  
“Most of those involve me.”   
  
“It’s not my fault you guys are such a romantic cliché.” Mary Margaret laughed, but she still looked worried and Emma wondered what exactly it was that David couldn’t even talk about it. “Can I also follow up to that line of thinking?”   
  
Mary Margaret quirked an eyebrow. “Are you using journalism jargon?”   
  
“Are you using the word jargon in actual conversation?”   
  
“Ask your question, Emma,” Mary Margaret commanded. Emma stuck her tongue out.

“Was he….was he mad? David, I mean. About the tournament and people in the tournament and…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t even bring herself to actually look at Mary Margaret once she stopped talking and none of them had actually used _his_ name. Like he was a video game playing Voldemort.

“Of course not,” Mary Margaret said, sounding surprised Emma would even suggest something like that. “He’s worried about you. Why would he be mad?”  
  
Emma shrugged. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I just...he got all tense when Ruby shouted it in his face and he hasn’t said anything about it recently and I guess I just wondered, I mean, he’s always kind of blamed himself for me leaving and that’s just...ridiculous.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
Emma jerked her head up, Mary Margaret’s even stare practically boring into her and she wished she could get warm. There was a metaphor in there.

She ignored it.

“Listen,” Mary Margaret explained, leaning back towards Emma and resting both hands on her shoulders. “David got tense because he is worried that Neal is going to be a dick and probably doesn’t even realize that you’re in the League and then he’s going to have to kill him or something. He’s got very murderous tendencies when it comes to Neal.”  
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“He’s overprotective. That’s not going to change, especially not when you’re going to have to do promo stuff and League things for, at least, the next couple of weeks. I think he’s just banking on whatever stupid team name Neal is playing for losing early and often.”   
  
Emma blinked and her mouth had fallen open at some point, breath shaky as she tried to ignore the water she could still feel inching down her back. “That’s the most aggressive string of words I’ve ever heard you say, M’s. That was almost...mean.”   
  
“Yeah, well, he’s an asshole.” Emma’s knees buckled, crashing back on the edge of the desk. “He is,” Mary Margaret continued. “And if you don’t think Ruby has also chimed in on potential murder plans, virtual or otherwise, then you’re way behind.”   
  
“How often are you guys talking about this?”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged, like this wasn’t important. Like this wasn’t _huge_. “Not that often. Ruby texted me when you marched down Broadway to face off against Killian Jones. We decided we weren’t going to tell David right away, but that lasted thirty-six hours before she realized you hadn’t actually said anything and, well, you know Ruby.”   
  
“I do,” Emma agreed. “But, wait, you didn’t want to tell him first? If you knew already.”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret shook her head. “This is your thing, Emma. And, at the risk of sounding like an actual, walking cliché, this is your life. So if you want to ignore him the whole time, fine. If you want to kick him in the shins or punch him in the face, I’ve got some money saved up for bail on assault charges. Ruby and I have already figured that all out. Use me as your phone call.”   
  
Emma wasn’t sure how she was still standing. This had been the strangest day – being some kid’s hero and her not-quite family discussing bail options before seeing the one guy she’d thought could _change everything_ and then kind of did, Emma’s head was spinning.

“You alright there?” Mary Margaret asked softly, tapping her thumb on Emma’s cheek. It was the same thing she’d done the first night Emma slept at the Nolan’s – tapping her cheek and making sure she was ok and it was, suddenly, very difficult not to cry in that very decorated classroom.

“That’s totally cheating,” Emma accused. Mary Margaret smiled.

They both jumped when there was a knock on the door, the bag on Mary Margaret’s shoulder sliding onto the floor, and there was a soft chuckle behind them.

Emma’s heart stopped.

“Mr. Jones,” Mary Margaret said brightly like this was a thing that happened every day. Emma gaped at her. Oh God, they were making faces at each other. Killian Jones was standing in the doorway of Mary Margaret’s absurdly themed classroom and they were making faces at each other like they were standing in Storybrooke High.

“I thought we’d decided to forgo formalities, Mrs. Nolan,” Killian laughed and that wasn’t even _fair_. Emma turned towards him slowly, clothes still questionably drenched and he was looking at her already.

He was _looking_ at her.

His clothes weren’t drenched. They were the opposite  – well-fitted jeans and a t-shirt that was just _stupid_ and eyes that seemed to actually brighten as soon as they met Emma’s. He smiled at her.

Roland was half draped over his shoulder again, body twisted slightly to start talking to Mary Margaret, and Killian had his free hand on the back of Henry’s neck, calm and easy and Emma lungs were shrinking. “Swan,” he said and she tried to smile in return. “Did you walk here?”  
  
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Emma muttered, glancing at Mary Margaret when she made some kind of judgmental noise in the back of her throat. “And no, I didn’t. Not entirely, at least. I forgot how far away this school was from Union Square.”   
  
“You walked here from Union Square?”   
  
“I do not understand the Manhattan bus system. There are no closer trains.”   
  
Killian laughed, the hand on Henry’s shoulder tightening slightly and he mumbled a quick apology when the kid actually winced in pain. “It’s not that complicated, Swan, I promise.”   
  
“Yeah, well, not all of us are just born and bred city dwellers. There are, like, eight-thousand busses and transfers and it was just easier to take the train.”

“Seems awfully stubborn of you.”  
  
“Not stubborn. I’m just clinging to what little public transportation knowledge I have.”   
  
“Ah, right, of course,” he said, the smile turning to a smirk and he shouldn’t just be able to do that. He shouldn’t be able to just get under her skin and she’d thought about that far more than she should have in the last week. She’d thought about that far more than whatever shitty team Neal was playing for.

That seemed important.

“Do you understand the Manhattan bus system, then?” Emma pressed, not sure why she was prolonging this argument or conversation and Henry had given up on them completely, talking to Mary Margaret instead. Roland looked like he was halfway to falling asleep on Killian’s shoulder.

“Of course,” he shrugged. “Not a ton of trains uptown. It’s easy once you get used to it.”  
  
“So says you.”   
  
“I could show you.”

Killian blinked when he realized what he’d said and Emma wished they’d stop doing this – whatever _walking on thin ice_ sort of thing they’d been doing, half explaining pasts and half introducing themselves and if they were going to be _friends_ then they needed to have one conversation that wasn’t chock-full of secret meaning and not-so-secret emotion and, _shit_ , she wanted to kiss him.

Oh.

Well, that was unexpected. No, not unexpected. That was _very_ expected. She just hadn’t quite allowed herself to consider how expected it was until he was standing in front of her again and smirking and holding painfully adorable, sleeping children.

Totally cheating.

“You’re talking a very big game,” Emma muttered, pressing her palms into the desk so she wouldn’t be tempted to move. “I’m not sure you can back that up.”  
  
Killian grinned, tongue pressed on the edge of his lips and Emma’s lungs seemed to expand. She wished they’d decide what to do. She wished she could decide what to do. “I’ve already stolen cinnamon, love,” he said. “I hardly think I need to prove myself again.”

“I’m not seeing how those two things go hand in hand. And if you were really trying to prove yourself, then I think you did it with the story.”  
  
He stuttered slightly at that and Emma silently congratulated herself on whatever victory that absolutely was. “You read it?” Killian asked softly, like he was nervous about the answer.

“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “Couldn’t scream at you and then not actually read it, right?”

“You didn’t scream, Swan. And it was understandable anger.”  
  
“Even so. I shouldn’t have...jumped to conclusions like that.”

Killian glanced back up at her, any trace of teasing or public transportation forgotten in the sincerity of his stare. Emma reached out quickly, wrapping her hand lightly on the side of his arm, like there was a goddamn magnet there and she needed to stop doing that.

She kept trying to touch him.

He tensed under her fingers and Emma wondered what she’d done, following his eyes and, well, fuck. She’d landed just a few inches above his left hand – or what should have been his left hand and the prosthetic that was tucked underneath Roland’s legs.

She didn’t move her hand.

It was fine. This was fine. This was the last thing he needed to worry about.

Emma could see every single muscle in his throat move when he swallowed, eyes staring at her hand like it was made out of gold or the first time someone had moved towards his arm in the last six years, and she licked her lips before talking again.

“It was really good,” Emma continued. “Made me look like I knew what was talking about and everything.”  
  
“That wasn’t me, Swan,” Killian mumbled, voice a bit more hoarse than it had been since he knocked on the door and maybe all that bravado was just that. “I only transcribed quotes. You said all those things.”   
  
She rolled her eyes, making a face and she could feel some of his tension loosen. “Will you take my compliment, please?”

“Fair enough, love.”

Emma didn’t argue the nickname – either one – ignoring whatever Mary Margaret’s face did when she heard the second one and this was _absurd_. She tried not to think too hard about what she did next.   
  
“Hey, so, uh, I don’t know what you’re doing in a couple of days, but, well, Elsa and Anna are coming over for this celebratory thing,” Emma said. “For figuring out how we’re getting to Philadelphia and booking Philadelphia and I think Rubes is going to bring Belle and _that’s_ happening and M’s is going to make a ridiculous amount of baked goods and…” She took a deep breath, looking back up at him and he looked stunned. “Well, if you want to come.”

“Was there a question in there, Swan?”

She rolled her eyes, but Killian was smiling at her again and she could do this. Friends. Friends have celebratory dinners with the subjects of their feature stories. “I’m asking you to come over. You already know the address, so it should be easy.”  
  
“You’re never going to let that drop, are you?”   
  
“No.”   
  
Killian laughed, jostling Roland slightly and tightening his hold when took a well-placed knee to the ribs. “Also fair,” he admitted. “Yeah, I’d...I’d love that.”   
  
It wasn’t a date. If asked, she would have promised it wasn’t. There were going to be other people there. Her _brother_ was going to be there. God, she was going to have to introduce Killian to her brother.

It absolutely wasn’t a date, but Emma couldn’t quite stop the way her stomach flipped when Killian smiled at her, free hand on Roland’s back and eyes straight on her and Mary Margaret was staring at them like she’d just seen a choir of angels or something particularly absurd.

“Seven’ish? Saturday?” she asked and Killian nodded, groaning slightly when Henry collided with his side.

“I’ll see you then,” he said, leaning forward slightly before thinking better of it and wrapping an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Bye, Mrs. Nolan,” he shouted, moving back towards the door and the hallway and Emma was still frozen, perched on the desk.

“Not a word,” she mumbled as soon as Mary Margaret opened her mouth. She mimed zipping her lips shut, but Emma’s phone buzzed at least twelve times as soon as they got off the Subway twenty minutes later.

She tried to play the game as much as she could over the next few days, barking out orders in the back corner of Granny’s until the team moved as some sort of unit and they beat every single team they faced off against and that wasn’t anything new, but Emma was on some other level of _dedicated_ , determined not to think too much about Saturday and what Saturday meant.

“He’s late,” Ruby announced, hanging over the back of the couch and staring at Emma like it was, somehow, her fault.

Mary Margaret clicked her tongue in reproach, but Emma just glared at her friend – eyebrows raised and arms draped over a blanket in between Elsa and Belle. Anna was cross-legged on the floor, resting back against David’s knees as the four of them screamed at each other and bemoaned bananas on a track covered in digital ice.  

“She did say seven’ish,” Mary Margaret pointed out. Emma groaned loudly, waving her hands in the air as if to point out that she was, in fact, standing in the kitchen as well, but it didn’t seem to matter.

No one had been concerned about her thoughts on any of this – all of them just stunned that she’d even said anything to Killian and, truth be told, so was she, but she refused to think about that either.

They should have bought more controllers for MarioKart.

God, they were playing _MarioKart_. Emma bit back another groan, lips suddenly dry and she was _thinking_ , every idea she’d managed to ignore for the better part of the last few days flitting through her mind at a questionably fast speed, like someone had lost control of a projector.

Mary Margaret and Ruby were still arguing about time and what constituted late and the buzz of Anna’s phone was barely audible over David’s persistent sighs. Emma nearly fell over when the first knock on the door came and Ruby let out a low whistle on the second.

“You need to stop,” Emma warned, well aware that her words held no weight and maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe this was the worst idea in the world.

Maybe Killian Jones looked unfairly attractive on the other side of the door and Emma felt her eyes widen as soon as she swung it open, a slightly cautious look on his face and a bottle of wine tucked in the crook of his elbow and he smiled when he realized it was her.

He did that a lot.

“Hey,” Emma breathed, reaching forward to tug the bottle away from him and the smile got even wider.

“I’m not normally late, but I figured I couldn’t show up empty-handed, so….”

“That’s ok,” she interrupted, well aware of the entire apartment staring at them. “They’re too busy screaming at each other over red shells to worry about timeliness.”  
  
“That’s rude, Emma,” David shouted, not bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “Close the door, the neighbors get pissed when we get too enthusiastic.”   
  
“It’s because you take this way too seriously.”   
  
“That’s MarioKart, right?” Killian asked, nodding towards the TV and Ruby was still actually hanging over the back of the couch. She scoffed softly, drawing his attention and Emma didn’t think she imagined how close he was to her. “That can’t be comfortable, Lucas.”   
  
“Don’t worry about me, Jones,” she muttered. “What kind of alcohol did you bring? We’re going to judge you solely on your decision.”   
  
“Lots of pressure.”   
  
“How many hits that last story get?”

“Uh...like almost three-hundred thousand, but I haven’t asked Ariel to break into the system in a couple of days, so I don’t really know.” Ruby sat up, resting on her knees and staring at Killian like he’d just tried to discuss some sort of advanced physics theory. Emma understood the feeling. “What?” he asked, glancing at her and there really wasn’t any space in between them.

David stopped playing the game.

“That’s a shit ton of hits,” Ruby yelled, ever the soul of tact.

Killian kept staring at Emma, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and, maybe, concern. “It is,” she muttered. “That’s...I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“It is a national site, Swan,” Killian said softly. “That’s a good sign. Gina did get it in some kind of blast eventually. I mean, I’d have to ask Ariel, but I bet she could figure out where most of the hits were directed from. I don’t think the majority of them were from the newsletter thing.”  
  
“Newsletter thing,” Emma repeated slowly and Killian’s eyebrows lowered even more.

“But that’s good right?” David asked, twisting around and none of them could, apparently, could use their legs. He looked like an overgrown kid on the couch, his chin hooked over Ruby’s shoulder. “Hey,” he added, looking straight at Killian. “You’re the journalist, right?”  
  
“Oh my God, David,” Mary Margaret sighed and Anna snickered on the floor, fingers flying across her phone screen. Elsa shot Emma a supportive look – it didn’t work.

“I am the journalist,” Killian confirmed, rocking on his heels until his shoulder brushed against Emma’s. “That’s why I knew about hit count.”  
  
David hummed, like that was an acceptable answer. “Makes sense. So you think we can make five-hundred thousand hits?”   
  
Emma’s breath caught loudly, drawing half a dozen concerned stares and Killian turned on her immediately, ignoring David. “Swan?” he asked softly, tilting his head until she met his gaze and this was a mistake.

She shouldn’t have asked him there. Not with David and Ruby sitting on the couch and Mary Margaret baking like she was trying to stock a one-woman fundraiser and Emma was still holding a bottle of wine. “I’ll be right back,” Emma mumbled, turning on her heels before Mary Margaret could actually delve into her patented _it’ll be fine_ speech.

The door shook in its frame when Emma swung it shut behind her and it took two seconds for her to slide down the wall, stretching her feet out in front of her. She could see her own chest move as she tried to catch her breath, the idea of _five-hundred thousand_ hits rattling around in her head like a pinball machine.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Couldn’t even _fathom_ it and they had to do this for the rest of the year. An entire season of this.

Emma was far too distracted, reading the wine label like it was _War & Peace_, to hear the door open and close a few feet away from her, only realizing the other person in the hallway when he dropped down next to her and flipped a bottle opener under her nose.

“Where did you get that?” Emma asked, voice gruff and nervous and Killian’s shoulder bumped against hers again.

“Mary Margaret handed it to me and then nodded towards the door. She wasn’t exactly subtle.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s not her strong suit.”

“Ruby was trying to bet David on MarioKart roads. I think she was trying to keep him occupied.”  
  
Emma scoffed. “I’ll have to thank her. And they’re called tracks, not roads. If you want to get technical.”   
  
“Ah, that makes sense,” Killian grinned, tugging the wine bottle out of her hand and propping it in between his knees. He made quick work of the cork, leaning back slightly when the bottle fizzed and Emma took the offered drink without a word. His smile widened when she _gulped_ the wine down, barely blinking as she felt the alcohol in every inch of her.

“That was pretty impressive,” she said, handing him back the considerably lighter bottle. Killian hummed in confusion and Emma gasped when she realized what she’d said. The smile fell off his face almost immediately. “You shouldn’t offer me any more wine.”  
  
He reached his hand up, tugging on the hair behind his ear and staring at the baseboard on the other wall. Emma’s stomach clenched. “That’s alright, love,” he mumbled, taking his own long swig of wine. “It’s been a long time, you adapt.”   
  
“We’ve circled back around to bitter.”   
  
“Ah, maybe I am a little bit.” Emma tugged on her lip, trying to decide what to say next or if she should just drink half a bottle of wine in the hallway. Killian didn’t give her a chance to figure it out. “You look like you’re thinking, Swan.”   
  
“You know, Henry said the same thing to me the other day. He said it looked like you when you’re trying to decide what question to ask next.”   
  
Killian laughed, taking another drink and holding out the bottle expectantly towards Emma. She tried not to flinch when she brushed her fingers over his. “And what are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to figure out what question to ask next.”  
  
“An open book, love.”   
  
“That seems like cheating.”   
  
“Playing by a slightly different set of rules,” he shrugged and this conversation suddenly felt much bigger. He took a deep breath, pulling the oxygen in through his nose and his shoulders shifted against Emma’s, the quiet presence of him next to her making her, almost, forget about hits and stories and anything that wasn’t how goddamn _warm_ he was all the time. “You’ve never actually asked the question, you know. Most people do.”   
  
“Most people are assholes then,” Emma bit out and Killian laughed again, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Yeah, that’s true,” he agreed quietly. “I got hit by a car. Walking. Across the street at three in the morning. No arrests, no idea who the driver was, sped off before I even woke up and by the time I did wake up, I was already hooked up to so many machines with my hand missing that I didn’t really care much about identification.”

Emma sighed or exhaled or maybe just groaned, but she felt herself leaning forward out of instinct and Killian took another drink. “I don’t have a degree,” she said, shouting the words like a headline and he turned his head towards her slowly.

“What?”  
  
“I’m not trying to steal your sad story thunder,” she mumbled. “But, well, I’m...that’s why I ran out. Or freaked out. I wasn’t expecting that many hits. Or any hits, to be perfectly honest. And I...I need this to work. The League and money and the spotlight so we can draw interest. But...that spotlight is kind of terrifying?”   
  
“That sounded like a question.”   
  
“It kind of was.”   
  
“You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, Swan,” Killian said and Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. No, some stories were _hers_ and he didn’t need to know any of that. Not yet. Not ever. Of course not.

But he kept staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was sitting next to him and her stomach kept _swooping_ and it had nothing to do with the considerable amount of wine she’d already drank.

And Emma couldn’t help but entertain the idea of maybe.

“It just...it never happened and, well, it couldn’t happen and M’s and David just let me sleep in their apartment when they were in school and…” She cut herself off, nerves shooting up her spine at the look on Killian’s face. He thought she just meant college. “Oh, fuck,” Emma mumbled. “Give me the wine again.”

He handed it to her silently, watching her gulp down what felt like an entire glass before he pulled it away and she wobbled slightly. She was still sitting down. “I’m sorry,” he muttered and Emma glared at him.

“I’m not looking for your pity.”  
  
“And I’m not offering it. I’m telling you that I understand what it is to...lose hope. You’ve got something good here, Swan. People who care about you. That’s what all those questions about hits were for.”

Emma scoffed, but that stupid, rational voice in the back of her mind knew he was right. She didn’t care. She might have been a little drunk already. “You don’t have to do that,” she grumbled and he lifted his eyebrows in response. “Bond with me. Or whatever this is. You didn’t have to come out here.”  
  
“I wanted to.”

He said it simply – the words hanging in between them and Emma’s heart hammered against her chest, beating painfully against her ribs when Killian’s eyes ducked down towards her lips. She thought that happened. She’d had a lot of wine in the last five minutes.

“Yeah?” Emma asked softly, hating the uncertainty in her voice. She heard Killian shift, turning until he was halfway in front of his head tilted again and his eyes were distractingly blue.

He nodded. “Yeah.”  
  
“I need this to work. I am, literally, qualified for nothing else.”   
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
“I appreciate the argument, but you are incredibly incorrect.”   
  
Killian shook his head, eyes tracing across her face and Emma bit her lip again. “That’s not true at all, Swan. There’s an eleven-year-old kid who would tell both of us otherwise. Thank you for that, by the way. He’s ridiculously excited,”   
  
“I can’t believe he didn’t pick you actually,” Emma said and whatever confidence Killian had been clinging too seemed to actually _fall_ off him. “Oh,” she mumbled. “You don’t think so, do you?” He shrugged. “You should hear him talk about you. Like you’ve returned to New York to lead the entire Mills-Locksley clan to happiness.”   
  
“Henry talks quite a bit. And that’s because he’s only got memories of me showing up for birthdays and a couple days here and there.”   
  
“That’s not true,” Emma said quickly. _Stop talking. Kiss him._ Jeez.

“What?”  
  
She grimaced, scrunching her nose slightly and wiggling her fingers to signal for more wine. Killian eyed her skeptically, but he didn’t object and that felt like a win. “You just said it yourself, Henry talks a lot. About you. And things he doesn’t think you realize he remembers.”   
  
Killian widened his eyes, falling back on Emma’s side and they’d drank half the wine already. “Ah, that’s why you didn’t ask. You already knew.”   
  
“Not all of it,” Emma said quickly. “Just...bits and pieces, through Henry. About Regina and Robin flying down and you coming back to stay with them for awhile.”   
  
“A couple of weeks,” Killian muttered. “There are more specialists in New York than there are in New Orleans. Not that it made any difference. I left as soon as I got the job in Boston.”

“Right.”  
  
She didn’t know what else to say. This was not the _fun, friendship thing_ she’d envisioned when she’d asked him to come over. “It’s ok, Swan,” he said after a few more pained moments of silent. “It was a long time ago. I’m fully functional. ‘Ish. So, more like mostly functional.”   
  
“Stop that.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Deflecting,” Emma said. “And trying to act like it isn’t a big deal. It is. And you’re…”   
  
“I’m what, Swan?”   
  
Emma huffed and this wasn’t her thing – she didn’t _talk_ , she certainly didn’t _think_ about words or meaning or whatever it was Killian’s eyes did when they looked her direction. “You’re really good at this,” she said, all but shouting the words in his face. He looked a little stunned and maybe just a bit charmed. “And the story was really good and, well, maybe I think we can make this work. Even with a terrifying amount of hits.”

Killian was definitely smiling at her, leaning forward again and she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like she’d just run several dozen miles.

“It’s not terrifying, Swan,” he said. “It’s exactly what’s supposed to happen.”

“Five hundred?”  
  
“Ah, I make no promises, but I don’t see why not. In theory it should grow with increased interest and more stories.”   
  
“And when does that happen?”   
  
“Maybe next week?”   
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah, ok.”   
  
“You just have to trust me, love,” he said softly and she couldn’t remember moving her hand back to his chest.

“I do,” she whispered, the words falling out of her before she could come up with all the reasons why they shouldn’t and she didn’t really care about any of them.

Killian’s answering smile was...a lot. It was a lot. And Emma was absolutely horrible at coming up with words. “Good,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just keep flirting forever. We probably will. But with kissing soon. I know I keep hyping the kissing, but it's definitely still looming. Thank you to you guys for sticking with this story. I know it's not my normal sports feelz, so I really appreciate every click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	9. Chapter 9

He was going to kiss her.

He was.

He couldn’t come up with a reason not to – not when he could feel her _everywhere_ , that one hand resting on his chest feeling like some kind of live wire in the middle of the hallway and maybe it was the wine, but Killian was fairly positive it was just the echo of her voice and the slightly nervous smile on her face and _God_ he wanted to kiss her.

One of them moved or maybe both of them moved and he could feel her fingers tighten on the front of his t-shirt and his hand fell to her hip, wrapping all the way across her and they should have drank more wine.

If only to make sure that he couldn’t spill the wine. All over Emma.

“Holy shit,” she gasped, jumping up and there were droplets of wine falling off her leg and that wasn’t helpful at all because it only made Killian look at her leg and he was frozen in the middle of the hallway trying to figure out how to _not_ want to kiss her.

Ethics. _Ethics_. A line of professionalism that should be as wide as several city blocks. And wine. A lot of spilled wine.

“How did we not drink more of this?” Emma continued, trying to brush her leg off and that was distracting too. God damnit.

Killian shrugged, standing up and stepping back into her space like there was a magnet there or some kind of gravitational pull and the carpet was absolutely soaked too. This was a disaster.

And maybe he should tell Henry to stop talking so much.

Or come up with a way to kiss Emma.

The two things didn’t really go together.

“We haven’t been out here very long, love,” Killian pointed out, immediately groaning when the words seemed to land at his feet. Emma scoffed, but there was still a ghost of a smile on her face and barely any space between them.

Killian felt like he’d drank the entire bottle of wine.

“Maybe that’s why no one’s come out here,” she mumbled. “Usually they’re more obnoxious about that kind of stuff.”  
  
“Ah, well, maybe they’re trying something new.”

“Maybe.”

Emma laughed softly, head falling forward and Killian didn’t think she meant for her forehead to brush against him, but they were practically occupying the same space and his hand was back on her hip before he could even consider something different.

She didn’t move her head, but he could see her shoulders shift, the sound of her deep breath bouncing off the walls in the abandoned hallway and for one, absolutely insane moment he wanted to tell her everything.

He wanted to tell her about that night in New Orleans and the suspicions he’d never been able to actually confirm and he wanted to tell her why he still hadn’t been able to look at a single apartment, why he couldn’t imagine living anywhere below 86th Street and how he kept finding himself running up the West Side Highway if only to be close enough to the water that, maybe, things would start to make sense again.

He wanted to tell her that, maybe, she made sense.

“Emma,” Killian breathed and her whole body stiffened, going taut with tension as her hand fell back to his arm.

“Still here,” she muttered. She didn’t lift her head.

He laughed softly, fingers tracing across her shirt and over her back and they’d teleported across those blocks. “Yeah, I can see that.”  
  
“You’ve got to stop doing that.” He dropped his hand as quickly as if he’d been shocked, eyes going wide and Emma, finally, pulled her head up, staring at him like she couldn't quite figure out what she’d done wrong. “What?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Why are we repeating each other?”   
  
“I have no idea what’s happening.”   
  
It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but Emma smiled at him and maybe the world recentered or gravity shifted slightly and he’d never wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wanted to kiss her and maybe they could walk out of some kind of quasi-family, team-bonding dinner without anyone noticing that they were gone.

“I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of this,” Emma chuckled. “This whole friend thing. We’re kind of talking in circles here.”  
  
“What are you trying to say, Swan?” Killian asked, ignoring the flash of sheer terror that seemed to shoot down his spine at her words

_Melodramatic idiot_.

She rolled her eyes, squeezing her hand and he’d forgotten it was there – fingers wrapped around his forearm and just above his brace and the terror turned back to nerves and he was back in the middle of whiplash all over again. “We keep having these vaguely emotional, heavy conversations in hallways and corners and, well, this was just supposed to be fun.”

She laughed again and he’d probably think about her lip in between her teeth for the rest of dinner.

With her brother at the other end of the couch.

Fuck.

“Are we not having fun?” Killian asked, determined to stop thinking and considering and Robin was going to kill him. He didn’t want to think about Robin either.

“If emotional backstory is your idea of fun.”  
  
“I wanted to know. And…” He took a deep breath and moved his hand again, fingers tracing over the back of her palm and the wine bottle was still on the floor. “I wanted to know,” he repeated. “Not...not on the record or anything, just because it’s you.”   
  
Emma blinked, lips parting slightly and he could hear her breath rush out of her, like she was stunned. “See, you’re doing it again.”   
  
“Be more specific, Swan.”   
  
“You’re...nice.”   
  
“That didn’t sound very confident.”   
  
She shrugged, clicking her tongue. “I didn’t expect you to be nice. You’re just supposed to be here for the angle or something.”

“I’m not,” Killian said seriously, bringing his hand up to wrap around her shoulder and she bit down on her lip again. “You know I don’t just steal cinnamon and risk lawsuit for people I’m only interested in getting a few quotes out of.”  
  
Emma laughed and he could feel that too, some kind of overly emotional, metaphorical light that seemed to sink into every inch of him. “I don’t think one Starbucks is going to miss its cinnamon container. Which is all you stole, by the way. It’s not like you staged this major theft of the entire cinnamon supply.”   
  
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”   
  
“Nah,” Emma shook her head. “I’m just trying to keep that ego in check. Can’t have you getting too far ahead of yourself. And, after all, aren’t you just supposed to report on the crime, not live it?”   
  
“That’s a good point, although, if we’re going to follow through on that line of thought, I’m not much of a crime reporter anymore.”   
  
Emma hummed and Killian tried not to consider just how easy it was to fall back into features and caring and stories that kept him up until five in the morning. And he wasn’t nervous – not really. The story had done well, better than he thought it would with far more hits than he’d promised Cora, but anything could happen and Killian found himself wanting all over again.

That was dangerous.

He needed to get out of the hallway.

“Hey guys,” a voice called from a few feet away and Killian spun around to find a nervous looking Belle leaning around the doorway. “Uh, David and Ruby want Emma to come play MarioKart? Something about wrecking on Special Cup? And also Mary Margaret says there’s food. She also mentioned combating the wine. I have no idea what that meant.”  
  
Emma sighed, rolling her eyes when Killian glanced over his shoulder. “She thinks she’s my mother,” she explained and he couldn't even find it in himself to be frustrated. Even if he still wanted to kiss her a questionable amount.

“It’s still not a bad thing, love.”  
  
Her eyes flashed back up towards him and he couldn’t seem to stop moving towards her. Belle was still standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I know, I know. I just....they’re totally putting on a show for you. And we wasted all that wine.”   
  
“I’m not worried about the wine. Or the show.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian said easily, shaking his head and Emma’s feet hit up against his sneakers. He’d never taken his shoes off. And she was barefoot in the hallway with her eyes tracing over his face like she was looking for the lie and a small puddle of white wine a few inches away.

Emma nodded once, lips pressed together tightly and she tugged on his shirt again. He was, at least, ninety-nine percent positive she rocked towards him and maybe she wanted just a bit too. “Alright,” she sighed. “You want to be incredibly impressed by my MarioKart skills?”  
  
“I’d like nothing better, Swan.”

“Good.”  
  
He followed her back into the apartment – the empty bottle of wine in his hand – and he didn’t think he imagined the knowing look on Belle’s face when she closed the door behind them.

And if Killian wanted to kiss Emma in the hallway then it was nothing compared to how much he wanted to kiss her on her brother and sister-in-law’s couch, watching with something that probably looked a bit like awe, as her thumbs flew over the controller in her hand and she let out a string of trash talk and laughter that made him reconsider everything he learned in Journalism 101 at least twenty-four times.

It was the same thing that had happened at the qualifier. She was more confident with a game in front of her  and Killian couldn’t seem to stop watching her, the way her eyes flitted across the screen and tongue pressed into her cheek and maybe he should drink some more.

David groaned again – his car spinning out into what appeared to be an actual moat of lava when Emma ran into him. She let out a triumphant sound, flashing a smile at Killian, and David slumped further into his seat, dropping his controller on the ground.

“Told you I was good,” Emma muttered, knocking her shoulder into Killian’s arm and for as tense and cautious as they’d been in the hallway, she was the exact opposite with the game on TV and the chance to gloat just a bit in front of her brother.

Killian grinned, shifting slightly and maybe his arm moved over the back of the couch on purpose. Maybe he completely ignored Ruby’s quirked eyebrows and the quick glance she shot Elsa’s direction. “I wasn’t doubting you, Swan,” he said. “Although I’ll admit that my experience with this game is limited to being absolutely destroyed by Henry and Roland.”  
  
“Roland, too? Jeez, you’re just painfully bad at all of this aren’t you?”   
  
He shrugged, but Emma’s smile didn’t waver and David picked up his controller again, demanding _another round_ and _another race_. “Henry is, of course, some kind of expert, but Roland’s getting there and this is at least an almost acceptable game to play with a seven-year-old. He’s just got better hand-eye coordination than I do.”   
  
Emma widened her eyes and Killian wasn’t sure if that crash was David’s controller falling again or Mary Margaret dropping several pounds of food. Ruby snorted softly, holding her own controller out expectantly a few inches away from Killian’s nose.

“What?” he asked, possibly just asking the entire apartment.

Ruby pushed the controller into his chest. “Here,” she said. “You can use mine. I’ve got...whatever, come on David.”  
  
David had absolutely dropped his controller, still bent over when his head snapped up to gape at Ruby. “What? No, no, Rainbow Road! We’ve got one more track! I’m almost actually good at that one. I could knock Emma into oblivion.”   
  
“Nothing says family like threatening to knock each other into oblivion” Ruby laughed, taking a step towards him and tugging him unceremoniously out of the chair. “C’mon. M’s probably needs help or something.”   
  
David stared at her for a beat, glancing quickly towards a clearly frustrated Emma. “Right,” he nodded. “Right, right. There’s a ton of food. Absolutely.”   
  
“Really selling it, Detective,” Ruby muttered, pushing him back towards the kitchen and leaving Killian on the couch with Emma next to him and three other teammates sitting awkwardly in the living room.

“Well,” Belle said awkwardly, grabbing a handful of empty cups off the coffee table in front of her. “There’s a lot of food, so….come on Anna.”  
  
Anna blinked, barely taking her eyes off her phone screen before it buzzed again and Belle eyed her meaningfully. “Oh,” she sighed, jumping up immediately. “Right, right the food. Yeah. Ok. Let’s go, El.”

Emma closed her eyes, resting her head in her hands and her shoulders had gone tense again. He should have bought two bottles of wine.

They never should have left the hallway.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Elsa mumbled, resting a hand on Emma’s shoulder as she followed her sister back towards the suddenly crowded kitchen.

They sat in silence for what felt like an entire lifetime and another Saturday night of whatever any of this was and Killian only realized he was still holding the controller when the game started to make noise and the stupid thing vibrated in his hand.

“Uh, Swan,” he muttered and she snapped her head towards him, something that looked like _dread_ on her face. “Hey, what’s the matter?”   
  
She sighed, her whole body sagging forward and he moved again, twisting back towards her, the controller and the game forgotten completely. “Are you kidding me?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“This is a disaster.”   
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“I didn’t even think about….” Emma swallowed, pulling her lips back behind her teeth and if he still didn’t want to kiss her so much he probably would have been concerned by the look on her face. “God, you should just...I don’t know what I’m doing here. I didn’t even think about your hand-eye coordination and I…”   
  
“Swan,” Killian interrupted. She stared at him, hands twisted in her lap and Mary Margaret dropped another dish. “Is she doing that to make sure we don’t think they’re all eavesdropping?”   
  
“Probably.”   
  
“They’re not very subtle.”   
  
“Why do you think I’m freaking out? Between the pans and the food and, God, we didn’t even tell anyone about the puddle of wine in the hallway. The whole place is going to smell like...what was that?”   
  
“Chardonnay.”   
  
“Jeez, did you spend a lot of money on that? I hope you didn’t spend a lot of money on that.”   
  
“I didn’t,” Killian promised, not sure if that was an admission he was particularly pleased to make. Emma sighed. “And I don’t mind the lack of subtlety. It’s almost funny.”   
  
“Gee, thanks.”   
  
“You know what I meant.”   
  
“I promise I don’t,” Emma groaned and she was dangerously close to him again, half on the same couch cushion and this all felt a bit _teenage_ and somewhere close to absurd, but a few days before he’d bet his entire career on a series of video game features, so it almost made sense.

Killian grimaced and he should tell her he couldn’t. There were rules and expectations and, shit, bias and Regina would absolutely push him onto the tracks at the Astor Place station if she realized he was thinking any of this.

He didn’t.

Of course not.

He couldn’t seem to get his mouth to move.

“Ask me a question,” Emma said suddenly.

Killian lowered his eyebrows, blinking twice and she smiled at him, certain and confident and exactly the way she looked when she was playing the game. “What?”

“A question. Ask me. Something. Anything. Make this less weird.”  
  
“And interviewing you is going to be less weird than trying to play this game and ignoring whatever it is Mary Margaret is doing?”   
  
“Yes,” Emma said evenly. “Plus I’d absolutely destroy you on Rainbow Road. If we’re going to actually do this then we need to start on something easier.”   
  
Killian felt his lips twitch, something that might have actually been _nerves_ settling in the pit of his stomach and maybe easier was better.

Friends. Friends. _Friends_.

Goddamn fucking ethics.

“Why is your coffee order so absurd?” he asked and maybe he’d think about Emma’s laugh even more than that thing she kept doing with her lip.

“That’s your question?”  
  
“It’s been driving me nuts since the qualifier.”   
  
Emma smiled at him – the green in her eyes getting slightly darker as soon as _that_ particular admission seemed to just fall out of him. “Yeah?” she asked. He just nodded. “Ah, well, it’s a complicated, dramatic story. And mostly all Mary Margaret’s fault. When we were in high school, she worked at the diner in town and she was...let’s say very good at experimenting with food and drinks and dessert options.”

“And you were her favorite test subject?” Killian asked.

“Those journalism instincts.”  
  
“Perceptive.”   
  
“Right,” she grinned. “Well, M’s started getting more and more ambitious and finally she came up with, as she will be the first to tell you, the perfect ratio of hot chocolate to coffee. See, we lived in a tiny town and the closet Dunkin Donuts was twenty minutes away, so the idea of a fancy cup of coffee was a bit of a dream to the residents of Storybrooke. M’s changed all that.”

“You’re right, it was a very dramatic story.”

“It’s a staple at the diner now. Although no one makes it as good as M’s does.”  
  
“Naturally,” Killian agreed. “Why the cinnamon though?”

Emma’s breath hitched and there was another crash in the kitchen and feet padding across the living room floor – a drastic and immediate return of family and a distinct lack of subtlety. She twisted her hands again, the knuckles in her fingers cracking from the movement and Killian’s stomach clenched, not quite sure how one follow-up could have blown up in his face like that.

“So,” David said pointedly, dropping back onto the chair and kicking his legs out. Killian sat up a bit straighter. “How’s someone start writing about the video games?”

Emma groaned, grabbing a pillow off the floor and tugging her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. “Subtle,” she muttered, but David just shrugged.   
  
“Probably the same way someone becomes a professional video game player,” Killian said. “Interest. Maybe a bit of talent. A deep-rooted desire to pay rent and become a functional member of society.”   
  
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Emma said, but the smile was back. “The functional member of society part. I mean, that’s just kind of my corner of the apartment now.”

“Ah, but you’re not sleeping in a hotel and living off room service.”  
  
“Are you?”   
  
“Barely.”

David made a noise and Killian pulled his eyes away from Emma, trying to look as if this wasn’t all blatantly obvious. “But you’re only just getting back into feature writing now, right?”

“Yeah,” Killian said. “I’ve only been at Mills for about a month. I got back to the city a couple days before I met the team.”  
  
“Wait, really?” Emma asked sharply. Killian shrugged, far too aware of the audience in front of them and whatever checklist of questions David was working his way down.

“Right, right,” David muttered, tapping his fingers on his thigh like he was trying not to actually start taking notes. Emma still hadn’t let go of the pillow. “And you were covering...crime before? Seems kind of generic?”  
  
Killian lifted his eyebrows, the couch creaking slightly when Emma moved. “Was that supposed to be a question?”

“I mean there’s a lot of crime.”  
  
“Oh my God, David, this isn’t even entertaining anymore,” Ruby muttered, but David didn’t seem deterred. He straightened his shoulders, eyeing Killian like some kind of journalistic threat and Emma couldn’t stop staring at her still sockless feet.

“I didn’t start with that,” Killian explained. “I did a lot of longform stuff when newspapers were still interested in longform stuff, but that changed fairly quickly and uh…” He glanced towards Emma, trying to take stock of her face and her eyes and how much he _wanted_ and the truth just kind of tumbled out of him. “When my brother died, there wasn’t much left in the city to keep me interested and the industry was changing and I wanted...a change of scenery.”   
  
Emma let go of the pillow.

“So,” Killian continued. “I picked up a bunch of freelance stuff, all over the country and I landed in New Orleans about seven years ago, started working on a series of stuff, got hit by a car, came back to New York, left New York again, went to Boston, stayed in Boston for a few years, wrote whatever they told me to and then stopped doing that when I got fired. Now, I’m covering video games and trying to figure out how to play this game and, hopefully, going to Philadelphia with my photographer so we can keep getting hits on the site.”  
  
The entire goddamn apartment stared at him and Killian tried not to blink or look at Emma and neither one of those things was particularly easy.

“It was a good story,” David said, breaking the silence and standing up. He took three steps towards Killian, reaching his hand out and Emma made some kind of strangled noise on the other end of the couch.

“Thanks,” Killian said cautiously, taking the outstretched hand and shaking.

“And Philadelphia shouldn’t be a problem,” Elsa added quietly. She clicked her tongue when every head in the apartment turned towards her, Killian’s eyebrows shooting up his forehead quickly. “Emma didn’t tell you?”  
  
“I was getting there,” Emma sighed. “Eventually.” He turned towards her, certain every single nerve ending in his body sparked as soon as her eyes met his and he’d talked about Liam. Shit. “There was a point to this celebration, remember?” she asked. “We figured out Philadelphia.”   
  
“Elsa figured out Philadelphia,” Ruby corrected and Emma hummed in agreement.

Elsa waved a dismissive hand through the air, rolling her eyes for good measure and Killian tried not to actually explode with questions. “This is also a very long story,” she warned.

“It’s good though,” Emma mumbled, a nervous smile on her face and she certainly hadn’t missed that whole _dead brother_ part of the story. He wished they were in the hallway again. “She’s secretly a lawyer.”   
  
“What?” Killian asked. His neck wasn’t going to stand up to a full year of this. His muscles already felt like they were being twisted in impossible ways.

“That’s not technically true,” Elsa corrected. “I never actually took the bar in New York and I’ve never really practiced and...whatever, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know people in a corporate type way and, well, our parents knew even more people and I don’t really like Weselton, but he did a lot of work with my parents and they’re interested in getting into sponsorship possibilities and…”  
  
She shrugged, clearly not comfortable with the spotlight or the half a dozen pairs of eyes staring at her. Killian wished he’d brought a notebook. Or a pen.

He was woefully unprepared.

“What do they do?” he asked and Emma widened her eyes in confusion. “This Weselton guy and, I’m assuming, his company? What do they do?”  
  
“Oh, uh, shipping. Trade stuff.”   
  
“Trade stuff?”   
  
“Is it really that important? I mean we weren’t going to be able to do much of anything if we didn’t get the money. From what I can tell they’ve got their hands in a bunch of different things. There’s really no rhyme or reason to it. It just seems like a money thing and if they can ship it, they move it.”   
  
“And they want to get involved in sponsorships?” Killian pressed, some kind of metaphorical alarm bell going off in the back of his mind.  “Of video game teams?”   
  
“They’re the only ones who responded,” Elsa admitted quietly and Emma stuttered at that, eyes going wide and shoulders sagging when her head darted towards a slightly stunned looking Ruby. “I...Anna and I came up with a bunch of people our parents might have known or could have worked with and…”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Killian said. “Might have? Past tense?”   
  
Anna scowled at him, finally dropping her phone on the ground. “Past tense,” she repeated, but there was a hint of sadness in her voice. This was an unqualified disaster. Maybe there was a twenty-four hour liquor store nearby. Probably not.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Anna made a face, not quite disappointment, but not quite acceptance either and David looked like he couldn't quite believe he’d started this whole conversation.

“They worked in collections,” Elsa said, answering a question Killian hadn’t actually asked. “You know, fine art, antiques, that kind of thing. We basically grew up in the back corner of Sotheby’s.”  
  
“You grew up in New York too?” Killian asked, working the first genuine smile out of either one of the sisters since any of them had started talking.

Elsa nodded. “Upper East.”  
  
“Naturally.”   
  
“Did you say too?”

“Morningside Heights,” Killian mumbled, trying not to actually sigh at the admission. It felt like an admission. God, Liam would punch him. “Although now it’s more a very expensive hotel room room on 92nd. That’s a work in progress, though.”

He chanced a look Emma’s direction – something about those pesky, metaphorical magnets again – and he couldn't quite read the expression on her face, a mix between confusion and interest and, maybe, concern.   
  
“Did everyone in this room grow up in the city except us?” David asked, nodding towards Mary Margaret and Emma.

Belle shook her head. “Hartford,” she said. “Until I went to school and then a couple years abroad and back here for the job at the library.”  
  
“You and Emma should talk the old town.” He gasped as soon as the words were out of his mouth and there was far too much going on in that living room. Mary Margaret banged on another pan, announcing she _needed more help_ and David practically leapt out of his chair.

Killian didn’t move his eyes away from Emma, trying to read her mind and coming up decidedly short. “Swan,” he said slowly, reaching towards her arm. She shook her head.

“Weselton’s going to pay for the whole thing,” Elsa continued. “Getting to Philadelphia and being in Philadelphia and we just have to…”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Win,” Emma finished. “We have to win. Immediately.”   
  
Killian furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s not how it works though. It’s a whole season. You can’t just win while you’re in Philadelphia.”   
  
“There are events though and rounds and things that we can win,” Elsa said, sinking onto the arm of the couch. “And if we can keep up this whole publicity thing then Weselton thinks he’ll get a push and maybe he’ll start shipping video game consoles or something. We keep winning, he keeps winning and the company keeps paying. It’s a win-win.”   
  
That wasn’t right.

There was something wrong about this, but Killian couldn’t figure out what it was or what it could be and he couldn’t think when Emma looked so worried and Mary Margaret was announcing dinner and drinks.

He tried not to think about it – the hallway or the wine or how he could nearly feel the nervous energy radiating off Emma the entire night, just a breath away from him on that stupid couch and every time he got another piece of information, Killian just found himself more confused than ever.

It didn’t matter.

There was no room for questions in a celebration and David tried to get him to play MarioKart again and he was just as horrible as promised, trying to twist the entire goddamn controller underneath his left thumb so he could steer – until Emma jumped off the couch and dropped onto his left side. He gaped at her and he couldn’t actually _feel_ her fingers when they dropped onto his brace, but Emma didn’t flinch, just looked at him hopefully and Killian nodded.

He had no idea what he was agreeing to.

“Just hit the buttons when I tell you, ok?” she asked and he nodded again.

They won the next race, Emma’s quiet instructions in his ear and a smile on her face that seemed to erase whatever she’d thought about Hartford and questionable video game sponsors and she steered and he hit the ‘A’ button a questionable number of times.

David threw his controller again.

“Serves you right,” Emma announced, her whole arm pressed up against Killian’s and it felt a little bit like staring straight into the sun. “I don’t know why you keep picking tracks you suck at.”  
  
“He sucks at every track,” Ruby mumbled, snapping her jaw when David kicked another pillow her direction. Mary Margaret rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look surprised to see any of this and even Elsa looked amused.

Belle tried to turn her yawn into something that didn’t sound like complete exhaustion, but it didn’t really work and it was already after midnight. Killian hadn’t looked at his phone all night.

“Ah, well,” Ruby sighed. “Maybe now’s a good time to save David some more embarrassment. Can’t have the pride of New York showing just how shitty he is at basic video games in front of the press like this. What will the commissioner think?”  
  
David scoffed, flicking his finger at Ruby’s arm. “I would imagine he’d be concerned why anyone is judging another human being on their MarioKart skills.”

He glanced at Killian and Emma groaned, her whole body going slack against Killian and he tried not to actually wrap his arm around her shoulders.

Or kiss her.

Definitely kiss her.

“Heavy handed, Detective,” she hissed, but David just grinned and held his hand out towards her, pulling her off the couch and tugging her against his side. Emma shook her head, but she didn’t argue the movement and she was still smiling when she looked back at Killian. “I think we figured it out right? Some kind of absolute-destroyer team?”  
  
“That’s a little violent, Swan, but, yeah, we’ve definitely figured it out,” Killian said and it was a lie and he didn’t have anything figured out.

Mary Margaret forced leftovers into his hand – _there’s no getting out of it, you can give it to me later if you don’t want it,_ Ruby promised, but Killian couldn’t imagine eating another round of room service and he did have a tiny fridge in his room. “Thank you,” he said honestly, tucking the container under his arm and Mary Margaret beamed at him.

“I have no idea what portion control is,” she said and the entire night hadn’t made much sense, but being _mothered_ by Henry’s teacher and Emma’s sister-in-law was probably the only thing he’d almost expected. “And room service makes me want to cry.”   
  
“You and me both.”   
  
She smiled even wider, using his shoulder as leverage and pressing a quick kiss on his cheek. Huh. Killian’s eyes flashed towards Emma – just a bit paler than she’d been all night with wide eyes that, somehow, seemed greener and he tried to remember what the definition of _friends_ was. “Goodnight, Killian,” Mary Margaret said.

He nodded slowly, the other conversations in the apartment white noise in the background when he could hear Emma’s footsteps following him to the front door. “She’s going to try and feed you all the time now, you know,” she warned. “She’ll probably keep non-perishables in her desk at school on the off chance you pick up Henry and Roland again.”  
  
“Tuesday then,” Killian said without even thinking about it.

“Yeah? You know for someone who keeps promising they’re not much more than passing through, you’re doing a bang-up job of posing as top-notch uncle.”  
  
He laughed, leaning against the side of the open doorframe. “There’s some kind of third quarter meeting for Mills on Tuesday afternoon that’s expected to, and I’m quoting here, last until the end of time and I won’t have much to do this week. So I volunteered. Plus,” he added softly and he wished he could _stop talking_ , “there’s always the chance of serendipitous run-ins when I wind up at school. And ice cream.”   
  
“Vocabulary,” she muttered and Killian grinned at her. This was flirting. This felt a hell of a lot like flirting. “And we’ve got to practice on Tuesday. The only reason I was there this week was because of some school emergency that I showed up late for.”   
  
“Ah, of course.”

“Although….”  
  
“Although?”   
  
Emma’s eyes flashed and the flirting had turned into some kind of unspoken challenge. Or maybe he’d just lost his mind. They were blocking the door completely. Killian could hear Ruby mumbling under her breath, the sound of Anna’s fingers tapping on her phone screen and Mary Margaret’s quiet assurances that there was _more than enough food_ for Elsa to take some as well.

“Although,” she repeated. “We’re off on Wednesday because I’m a benevolent captain.”  
  
Killian chuckled. “Good word.”   
  
“You know I’ve never been farther uptown than Lincoln Center.”   
  
He was going to fall over. Or maybe collapse under the force of Ruby’s continued glare and he clearly hadn’t flirted in a very long time because he was kind of slow on the uptake. “What?” Killian asked. “Honestly, Swan?”   
  
“I’ve only ever stayed here with M’s and David and they live here and Ruby lives downtown and there was no point.”

“Huh.”  
  
Ruby groaned and even Elsa looked a little amused when she shouted, _j_ _eez, you are dense_ from the other side of the apartment. It took another two seconds before he realized.

“Oh, shit,” Killian muttered. Emma bit her lip. “Do you have pen, Swan?”  
  
“You are the least prepared journalist in the world,” she accused, but Mary Margaret was there in an instant with a blue and black option and a full notebook. “God, now she’s handing out school supplies.”   
  
“They’re extra,” Mary Margaret promised.

He drew her a map. An actual, honest to goodness map  and Emma looked like she was just on the edge of hysterics the entire time, particularly when the pen stopped working where he was leaning up against the wall.

“Here,” she said, pushing the replacement into his hand and Killian finished tracing out the crosstown route that include a train and one bus and several blocks of walking. “God, this is the most complex thing I’ve ever seen. Why do you just have this memorized?”  
  
“There’s a giant park in between where I grew up and where I went to college,” Killian explained, nodding towards the crudely drawn rectangle in the center of the map. “You pick up on these things after awhile. What time?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Time. We start at Lincoln Center and work our way up or something. God, you’ve missed half the city.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she looked excited and he’d drawn her a _map_. The hallway still smelled like wine. “I already explained that part, plus if I wasn’t playing or in this apartment, I was working for Granny, so there wasn’t much time for sightseeing.”   
  
Killian held the notebook back towards Emma, nodding towards the map and trying not to memorize every single inch of her – the way her fingers curled around the pages or that piece of hair that was back _again_ , seemingly there just to taunt him, or how she rocked back on her heels when her tongue darted between her lips and friends could hang out.

Journalists could be friends with their...God, subjects was a terrible word. He was going to get drunk off wine fumes in the hallway.

“So, let’s change that then, huh?” he asked, rocking back towards her and he’d have to look up how magnets worked later.

Emma’s fingers tightened on the paper. “Two? Do you get days off? How does it work?”  
  
“It’ll work,” Killian promised and it wasn’t really an answer to the question, but the story had done well and Regina _owed_ him or something he’d probably spend the next few days rationalizing because Emma kept smiling at him and he’d drawn a map for God’s sake.

“Ok,” Emma smiled and he was absolutely going to kiss her, but then Ruby was there and Elsa was there and Belle’s face was flushed so red with embarrassment that it was a wonder she was even still able to stay standing.

“C’mon, Jones,” Ruby said knowingly. “Let’s see which city kid who can hail a cab faster.”  
  
He hummed, pushing any frustration back into the corner of his mind and maybe he was part of the team now. Emma was still holding the map. “I’m totally going to win,” he promised and Ruby made some kind of contradictory noise at the other end of the hall.

Emma twisted her eyebrows, leaning forward slightly and he could smell whatever shampoo she used as soon as she took a step towards him. Her hand was warm against his chest. He tried not to read into that. “I’ve got no doubt,” she said and the certainty in her voice sent that same shockwave of heat through every single one of his veins and probably three-quarters of his arteries. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”  
  
He tried not to think about it.

He did. It didn’t really work. And he was about just as subtle as David had been – drawing questions from Robin and Will and even, once, Roland who wanted to know why he was so distracted when he totally forgot to even offer ice cream after school on Tuesday.

Regina glared at him for most of dinner that night.

Killian absolutely didn’t care. He just smirked back over a plate of questionably expensive food and walked back uptown to try and work out some of that residual energy and, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, he ordered two cups of ridiculously espresso-filled coffee and coffee hybrids and took up his spot in front of the Lincoln Center fountain.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma said, jogging towards him with two cups of coffee in her hand. “Although insert cliché about great minds here or whatever.”  
  
Shit.

He knew his eyes widened slightly when she took another step, could feel the smile inching across his face as soon as he realized she was there and talking to him and she’d bought them coffee too. God, he wanted to show her the entire goddamn city.

He couldn’t remember the last time he cared about the island of Manhattan that much.

Or anyone else.

This was a problem.

“I’ll take the compliment, Swan,” he grinned. “Although I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with all of this caffeine.”  
  
“Drink it?”   
  
Killian barked out a laugh, nodding towards the sidewalk. “Genius, love.”   
  
“That almost sounded sarcastic.”   
  
“Almost being the operative word there.”   
  
“Drink your coffee,” Emma muttered, but she was still smiling and the sun was reflecting off her hair or something equally absurd. “What exactly did you have in mind today? And has this fountain always been here?”   
  
“Always. When I was a kid, my brother used to bring us down here with pennies and a whole bunch of those clichés you were talking about and we’d try and figure out what happened next. It never really worked the way we planned.”   
  
Killian took a gulp of coffee as soon as the words were out of his mouth and immediately winced when he burnt his tongue. An absolute, fucking disaster.

She put her hand on his arm. Again.

“How much older was he?” she asked and that was the last thing he expected. He expected _how did he die_ and _why did you run_ and _where were your parents_ – he didn’t expect a question about age. Emma smiled, shifting the cups in her hands and squeezing his arm again. “You can ask a follow-up if that helps.”   
  
Killian laughed, but that knot of anxiety that kept appearing in his stomach loosened. “That’s not a requirement, love.”   
  
“Ah, well, whatever helps the interview move along, I guess.”   
  
“He was nearly ten years older than me.”   
  
“Quite an age gap.”   
  
“Ah, yeah,” Killian said and he couldn’t run his hand through his hair with two cups of coffee in his grip. “I wasn’t exactly...let’s just say I was something someone else had to figure out.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
Killian hummed and they’d jumped right back into _god awful_ rather quickly. “Change of subject, Swan? And that wasn’t the follow-up.” Emma nodded, taking a sip of her coffee and he probably shouldn’t have regretted the loss of her hand as much as he did. “You’ve never been farther north than right here, right?”   
  
“Why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?”   
  
“I’m recapping, love. It’s what you do in a series of stories.” Emma rolled her eyes, just took another _gulp_ of coffee and she was already finished with hers. She held her hand out expectantly and Killian wasn’t sure he’d smiled as much in the last six years as he had since Emma Swan had showed up in his life. “You want to see how the other half lives?”   
  
He didn’t give her a moment to argue – trying to take stock of the flash of excitement in her eyes and the quirk of her lips as he took a step back towards the sidewalk and led her towards Central Park.

“So, this is that very well-drawn rectangle on the map, huh?” Emma asked when they kept walking, weaving in between pedicabs and tourists and some cart that appeared to just be selling balloons.

“I’m nothing if not an artist, Swan,” Killian said and the coffee cups were long forgotten, gone cold in between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. It left his right hand hanging at his side, something that felt like sparks practically shooting out his fingertips.

“Ah, yeah, I can see that. You’ve really captured the energy of it. Those four lines brought to life this oasis in an otherwise concrete jungle.”  
  
“That was almost poetic enough for me to ignore that slight sarcastic jab.”   
  
“No sarcasm. A tease at best. Where even are we? Is this just the great New York City fountain tour, then?”   
  
Killian hummed and Emma shrugged, the smile just a bit sarcastic as well. “It’s a better fountain,” he said, holding his hand out and Emma eyed him speculatively, the din of early-fall tourists and camera shutters working their way through the archway in front of them. “This is a historical landmark.”   
  
“Is that true?” Emma asked, the genuine curiosity catching him short.

“I’d imagine so.”  
  
“You don’t actually know? What kind of tour guide are you?”   
  
“I said we’d get you above 66th Street, Swan and made sure you got to see the good parts of the city. I made absolutely no promises about the validity of any of my claims.”   
  
She twisted her mouth slightly, turning towards him and _God_ if he just took a step towards her, he could kiss her and maybe it wouldn’t feel like his goddamn arm was going to fall off from not touching her. “The good parts, huh?” Emma asked. “What makes them good?”   
  
“I like them,” Killian answered easily.   
  
“You like fountains?”   
  
“I like....water.”   
_  
Jeez_.

“Because of the Navy thing?” Emma asked and he couldn’t breathe. She winced, squeezing one eye closed. “Was that the wrong question? You can get two follow ups. That seems fair, right?”

Killian nodded dumbly, mind racing to try and keep up with this and none of this was part of the plan. He was just supposed to write. He wasn’t supposed to….no. None of that. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he agreed. “And yeah to the actual question too. How did...how did you figure that out?”  
  
“Just because I don’t have a degree doesn’t mean I’m actually the dumbest person alive, you know.”   
  
“God, Swan,” Killian groaned, eyes bulging slightly and she was still smiling. “Was that also part of the teasing thing?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Shit,” he breathed. “God, you can’t….”   
  
Emma laughed – loud and meaningful and both her hands fell back on his chest when her head fell back towards him. “I’ll keep that in mind next time. You said Robin was old Navy and that he served with your brother. Wasn’t really hard to put two and two together. Although there is one thing I can’t figure out.”   
  
“Which is?”   
  
“Why didn’t you? Don’t those kinds of things go hand in hand? And from the way you’ve talked about you brother, I just kind of assumed…”   
  
“I did,” Killian interrupted and Emma lifted her eyebrows. “Thought he was the beginning and end of everything?” She nodded. “I did. And I probably would have followed, but he wouldn’t have let me. He wanted, well, a lot for me and for us and he dropped a hell of a lot of pennies in a hell of a lot of fountains so I wouldn’t have to do that. I got into school here and he made sure I went. Probably would have come back stateside if he even thought I wasn’t going to class every day.”   
  
They’d been walking. He didn’t realize that they’d been walking or that Emma was staring at him with something that felt a bit like wonder on her face. “You alright, Swan?” Killian asked and the noise was even louder near the fountain, more ice cream carts and tourists and coins splashing in the water.

“I just...he sounds like David,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, a little. That overprotective streak runs a mile wide, huh?”  
  
“I’m sorry about that. They were, well, I was kind of expecting it, but I didn’t think the whole lot of them would be like that. I mean we’re friends, right?”   
  
Killian ignored the flush of disappointment that shot down his spine, settling in his back and maybe he could just walk into the goddamn fountain and stand there until he melted or something. “Yeah,” he said, far too late to sound like he meant it. “Of course we are.”

“Good. That’s...that’s good news.”  
  
“Good.”   
  
“Are you going to ask your follow ups or nah?”

He laughed and some of that tension that he couldn’t quite see through seemed to evaporate right in front of his eyes. And then he tried to take a leap of faith – without throwing a coin in the fountain. “Would you ever think about going back to school?  
  
“Oh,” Emma blinked, twisting the end of her hair around finger. “Um, well,” she took a deep breath and that standing in the fountain plan was looking more and more appealing until she answered, “yeah.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” she shrugged and that smile was just _absurd_. Like the center of the universe. Or something. Or exactly that. “I mean, not right now, obviously, but I’ve been thinking about that for awhile and it’s kind of a timing thing, I guess and M’s and I have talked about classes online and a GED sounds...I don’t know, kind of like a copout, but…”   
  
Emma cut herself off, eyes going wide as sank onto the edge of the fountain, groaning slightly when she realized there was water involved. “Mary Margaret is the only one who knows that,” she whispered. “I don’t know why I told you that.”   
  
The disappointment threatening to pull Killian into the center of the Earth shifted to something a bit more hopeful and, screw the water, he sat down next to her. “Off the record, love. And I think you could do it. I _know_ you could do it.”   
  
“You don’t.”   
  
“I do,” he argued. “You’re not the only one who’s capable of using Google, Swan. And you’ve won a lot of tournaments and there’s a reason this team just defaulted to you being in charge. Because you should be. You could...you could do anything.”   
  
She blushed slightly, but she didn’t look away like she normally did. She held his gaze and rolled her shoulders back when she took a deep breath. “You can’t just say that.”   
  
“I just did.”   
  
“Off the record.”   
  
Killian shook his head. “Decidedly on. What would you study?” Emma lifted her eyebrows and he knew his voice had picked up, could feel that _rush_ that he got from a good interview and good questions and he was far too curious for his own good. “You did say two follow-ups.”   
  
“I don’t know,” Emma admitted with a soft laugh. “I haven’t gotten that far into the plan yet. I just want to feel like I’ve finally caught up to everyone else.”   
  
“It’s not a race, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, so says the award-winner with a job in his degree field.”   
  
“You’re a professional video game player, love,” Killian pointed out. “I don’t think you’re sitting in last place of whatever metaphorical race this is.”

“Yeah, with everything riding on this entire thing in Philadelphia. We’ve got to make a good impression or Elsa thinks this guy will pull and I...” she scrunched her nose, tapping her fingers impatiently on the granite underneath them, “...did you think that was weird? Not the deal part of it, obviously sponsors want their teams to do well, but a shipping company? It just seems strange, right? David thinks it’s fine.”  
  
“He’s the detective, Swan. I just type quickly.”   
  
“Yeah, but you did that whole thing in New Orleans, worked out clues or something, right?”   
  
“You think Elsa’s shipping company is...what? Dealing? And sponsoring video game teams? This guy knew her parents.”   
  
“That’s not a disagreement.”

She was right. And she knew she was right. It didn’t make any sense and if he’d thought about this afternoon for a questionable amount of time since Saturday night, then he’d considered the reasons for a shipping company offering to sponsor a video game team nearly just as much.

None of it added up.

“It’s not,” Killian admitted. “And, yeah, I did think it was kind of weird, but if it gets you to Philadelphia then it seems good for now.”  
  
“And what happens after Philadelphia?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “You win the entire inaugural season of the Overwatch League.”   
  
“Obviously. You’re awfully confident.”

“In you.”  
  
“That’s weird.”   
  
“Why?” Killian asked and Emma rolled her whole body in response. “Honestly, Swan. At some point you’ve got to understand that I am in this for the long haul. You can do this. We can do this.”

“Why’d you bring me here?” Emma asked sharply, a quick contrast from whatever conversation they’d been having. “Because I don’t...are we really friends?”  
  
Killian nodded. “There’s no angle here, love. This place is, well, it’s important and I wanted you to come here. With me.”   
  
“You bring all your feature-story subjects up here?”

“No.”

He hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, but there was no point in beating around some metaphorical bush or very solid fountain and none of this _made sense_ , but he couldn’t seem to stop staring at Emma.

“What was his name?” she asked. “Your brother, I mean.”  
  
He stopped breathing. Or the world stopped spinning. Or maybe just fell off its axis. And Emma Swan smiled at him.

_Shit, he was screwed_.

“Liam,” he mumbled. “His name was Liam.”  
  
“And he brought you here?” Killian nodded, heart picking up and maybe trying to work its way out of his chest and he hoped Emma couldn't hear it because that would probably be embarrassing. “Thank you,” she continued, just a bit breathless and he could barely hear her over the kid screaming a few feet away.

“Thank me when we hit five-hundred thousand hits, love, not for this.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you said that was just inevitable or something, right?” Emma laughed and he briefly wondered if it was possible to actually self combust from want. Probably not. He hoped not.

“That wasn’t a guarantee, Swan. But we’ll talk thank you’s then.”  
  
“Like what?” Emma’s mouth quirked, a piece of hair flying across her face when a gust of wind swept through the park. “Exactly?”

“Gratitude?”

“I thought this was a discussion for after the second story. Don’t you need to interview someone for that?”

“I thought I’d talk to Elsa about getting the sponsorship.”  
  
“Ah.”   
  
Killian smirked, well aware that the smirk hadn’t worked yet and he knew it wouldn’t work then and he couldn’t think of a single thing to do – except maybe bring his hand to his jaw, tapping thoughtfully underneath his lips and he was an asshole.

Liam was going to show up in the middle of the goddamn park and haunt him.

He’d deserve it.

“Please,” Emma scoffed, but her voice was still just a bit breathless and something in the back corner of his mind roared to life at that. “You couldn’t handle it.”  
  
“Ah, maybe, you’re the one who couldn’t handle it, Swan.”   
  
She didn’t blink and the whole goddamn city could have frozen or collectively jumped or teleported through some kind of wormhole in space and Killian would have only noticed Emma and her eyes and how quickly her hands moved when she leaned forward, grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

Hard.

_Fuck_.

There were people everywhere – tourists and not tourists and sounds and it was so goddamn _loud_ and all Killian could think about was how easy it was to fall into her, like he was falling into the middle of the ocean.

Her nails scraped across the back of his head lightly and that seemed to wake him up, right arm snaking around Emma’s shoulders until his fingers found their way into her hair like he was trying to make sure he could hold her against him.

He might have groaned or maybe she did and it didn’t matter one way or another because thinking about any of that would mean he’d have to think about something that wasn’t her lips on his or her hand dragging across his chest. Killian rocked forward and it wasn’t exactly easy – they were sitting on a _fountain_ , the water somehow hitting them from what felt like every angle and he was definitely the one that groaned when her tongue moved against his lower lip.

He’d run out of oxygen.

No. That was...that was absurd. This wasn’t supposed to end.

Killian ducked his head again and if he just kept kissing her they wouldn't have to move or consider the line they’d just obliterated and there went Journalism 101.

They nearly fell off the edge of fountain, Killian’s foot skidding across the ground and the world was still moving – it must have been. He could hear people still yelling, the city moving and existing and Emma breathing just a few inches in front of him.

God, he wanted to kiss her again.

“That was…” Killian started, nearly stunned by the strangled sound of his own voice. Emma hadn’t let go of his shirt.

“A one-time thing,” she said and he felt his eyes fall shut as soon as the words the words registered. “Don’t...don’t follow me. I’ve...I’ve got to go.”  
  
He didn’t say anything. And he’d think about _that_ for hours that night, playing it over and over as he wondered when exactly Emma Swan had found her way into every single word he could even think about writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I know. Kissing with some dramz, but Philadelphia is looming and stuff is coming and I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's the nicest. 
> 
> As always, I'm totally down to flail on Tumblr. And giving away fic for a follower milestone! And writing a real life book! http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	10. Chapter 10

“You did what?”  
  
“Mary Margaret, if you keep asking the same questions, I’m not going to explain anything.”   
  
Emma sank into the corner of the couch like that explained _that_ and it absolutely didn’t. It didn’t explain anything.

Like why she’d kissed Killian Jones. _Two weeks ago_. That was two weeks ago and he hadn’t come to practices or even sent Will to practices and Emma hadn’t responded to half a dozen text messages or done anything that made much sense at all.

In the last two weeks.

And now they had to go to Philadelphia. For the entire goddamn weekend and she wished her stomach would stop doing whatever it was doing.

“Ok,” Mary Margaret said, flopping down next to her and swinging her legs onto the coffee table and if that wasn’t a sign then Emma wasn’t sure she understood anything about the world. It might have been the later. “Go over it one more time.”  
  
“M’s, we honestly don’t have time for this,” Emma sighed. “They’re all going to be here soon and I’ve…”   
  
“Got to figure out a way to ignore Killian Jones for two hours?”   
  
“That’s if traffic is perfect.”   
  
“You know you don’t actually have to ride in the car with him.” Emma rolled her eyes, dropping her head back against the top of the couch and Mary Margaret couldn’t even try and work a smile onto her face. “Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s probably true. What if you steal a car?”   
  
“You want me to steal a car?” Emma asked. “I already have a criminal record, M’s. We don’t need to add onto that before the season even starts.”   
  
“Ok, that’s not even what I meant at all.”   
  
“I know it’s not.” Emma needed to stop sighing. It wasn’t helping her stomach or the several different knots it had been in for the better part of the last two weeks.

God, he was good at kissing.

He was incredibly good at kissing her.

“I don’t know what to do, M’s,” Emma muttered and there it was. That was the crux of the problem. Emma wanted the plan and answers and that control she was slightly to moderately obsessed with and she didn’t have any of that when it came to Killian or how goddamn good he was at kissing her.

It made her head spin and her heart rate pick up and there was still a container of cinnamon sitting in her compound and a map she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw away.

She’d become a sentimental hoarder in the span of two weeks and one makeout session on a fountain. God, he brought her uptown and places he went with his brother and she couldn’t quite stop thinking about the way his voice had cracked slightly when he talked about any of it, quiet mentions of a story Emma still didn’t quite understand, but knew was, unquestionably, good.

And maybe he was good.

Jeez.

Heavy-handed. Way too heavy-handed.

Emma groaned, grabbing a pillow and crushing it to her chest as she slid along the back of the couch, an uncomfortable mess of a human who was much better at ignoring problems than dealing with them.

Mary Margaret glanced at her – a knowing, sympathetic look that Emma didn’t entirely appreciate – and they had a schedule. They had to be in Philadelphia by four o’clock and there were meetings and league rules and some kind of actual cocktail party _thing_ that included other teams and _socializing_ and Emma wondered, not for the first time, if she could get out of it.

She absolutely couldn’t.

“One more time,” Mary Margaret said again, resting her hand lightly on Emma’s shin. “For me. So I understand what’s happening.”  
  
“Do you not understand what’s happening?”   
  
Mary Margaret shook her head. “Honestly? No, I don’t.”   
  
“M’s, there are rules. Journalism ethics or something. He can’t just...we shouldn’t have…”   
  
“Made out in Central Park,” Mary Margaret finished and Emma tried to kick her way out of her friend’s grip. She was deceptively strong.

“See, you’re proving my point. You know what’s going on and you just want me to rehash.”  
  
“I want you to tell me why you said you kissed him.”

God, she had said that – had blurted the words in Mary Margaret’s face twenty minutes before when it actually felt like one of her organs was going to snap in half if she didn’t tell _someone_ and she could only tell Mary Margaret.

That was a bit of a lifelong trend.

Emma groaned again, but Mary Margaret was so used to all of this by now it was like they were hitting the high-points of some conversational schedule. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, wondering if it would be almost _too_ immature to just push her face into the pillow. Probably. Definitely.

“Liar, liar,” Mary Margaret accused, tapping her fingers on Emma’s jeans again. “You know what I think?”  
  
“I shudder to imagine.”   
  
“Rude. I think you’re absolutely terrified that this could mean something and you’re using ethics as a way to deflect.”   
  
“I’m not, and even if I were, it’s not like he’s...” Emma argued, but it was kind of true and both of them knew it and she couldn’t seem to stop replaying the way his fingers felt on the back of her neck. Mary Margaret didn’t say anything, just lifted her eyebrows and that was, absolutely, worse. “God, you’re good at that,” Emma grumbled. “Alright, I just...I wanted to.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s eyebrows shifted again – practically flying off her face and Emma sat up quickly, the pillow forgotten as she braced herself for the onslaught of romantic tendencies. “No, no,” she said quickly, waving her hands in the air like that would get Mary Margaret to stop planning out her entire life. “Stop. Stop whatever you’re thinking and whatever you’re assuming because it absolutely, positively can’t happen again.”   
  
“Why not?”

“M’s, we’ve been over this. It was a mistake. A misplaced idea and decision and he bought me coffee.”  
  
“He’s done that before.”   
  
“Yeah, but….”   
  
“Yeah, but what?”   
  
Emma tugged her lip tightly between her teeth, pressing her fingers just under her eyes and she had no idea how she was going to make it to Philadelphia when it already felt like her head was going to snap in half.

They were absolutely going to hit traffic. She just knew it.

“This can’t happen,” Emma said and it wasn’t an answer, was another deflection and refusal to talk and it was almost so obvious it felt kind of insulting to Mary Margaret. “It’s not. There’s not anything happening. It was one kiss.”  
  
Mary Margaret didn’t look convinced. “Yuh huh.”   
  
“It is! Was! Continues to be. Whatever tense you want to use.”   
  
“I mean, I think you covered most of them right there. Although you might have missed future.”   
  
“Bull. China shop. Just barreling through with all your thoughts and plans.”   
  
“I have neither thoughts nor plans,” Mary Margaret said evenly and Emma realized, rather suddenly, they’d never really done anything like this. That was almost strange, all things considered.   
  
Mary Margaret and David had been part of every single major moment in Emma’s life – had tried to pay for her lawyer for God’s sake – but there’d never been a moment in any of that when Emma actually sat down and had some kind of _talk_ about boys.

She’d never tried to talk about Neal with either one of them and that probably should have been a sign, but she was seventeen and angry at the world and now she was not seventeen and not quite as angry, but, maybe, more cautious for ever.

And Killian Jones could absolutely ruin everything.

Or…

No. That train of thought was dangerous and unacceptable and he’d been way too good at kissing. She was a mess.

“Ok,” Mary Margaret continued slowly, ducking her head and staring at Emma like David had just found her in a goddamn barn with hay in her hair. “So, nothing happens, but has anything happened? Past tense. What I mean is has he tried to...I don’t know, apologize?”  
  
“Why would he apologize?”   
  
Mary Margaret looked a little stunned and Emma’s stomach clenched again. “Em, for real? Oh my God, you have absolutely no idea, do you?” Emma shrugged, but she definitely _did_ have an idea and it made that same stomach flip and flop and maybe float away on the wings of several dozen butterflies. “He’s absolutely stunned by you. Floored. Overwhelmed. A slew of other adjectives that I bet he’d used in a well-crafted lede.”   
  
“Jeez, I shouldn’t have told you anything,” Emma sighed, but she didn’t mean it and she wanted to kiss Killian again. A lot. A questionable amount.

“He came here,” Mary Margaret continued. “He sat on the couch and answered David’s questions and explained his hand and didn’t even blink when you awkwardly asked him out. That’s what happened, by the way. You asked him out. The making out almost makes sense in that vein.”  
  
“M’s, there are no veins. There are no arteries or capillaries. He’s writing stories about us! He wrote another one about Elsa and the sponsorship thing last week.”   
  
“You know what they say about arguing too much.”   
  
“That people are trying to dispute overly romantic clichés and china shop metaphors?”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed, nodding slightly. “Yeah, exactly that,” she agreed. “Ok, can I ask one more question and then you can go absolutely dominate Philadelphia?”   
  
“There is nothing to dominate in Philadelphia except maybe the traffic on I-95, but, yeah, ok.”   
  
“You said you wanted to. That’s why you kissed him. So...do you think you’ll want to again? And with people you may want to avoid nearby?”   
  
“That was two questions,” Emma pointed out and Mary Margaret scrunched her nose. “I don’t know, M’s,” she admitted softly. “He’s...I mean he brought me uptown and we both bought each other coffee and he talked about his brother. His dead brother. Like we were...friends. And he’s just…”

Emma wished she could finish a sentence. If she could just come up with one complete thought when it came to her feelings for Killian, she might not be quite so terrified at the prospect of the weekend and two hours in a car.

“You’re trailing off again,” Mary Margaret muttered, that same, encouraging smile on her face and Emma felt some of the argument in her deflate.

“Yeah, I know,” she mumbled. “He’s nice, right?”  
  
“Who? Killian?” Emma nodded and Mary Margaret’s smile looked almost sad. God. “Yeah, I think he is. And that story about Elsa was really good. Don’t read the comments though.”   
  
Emma made a noise, something that felt a bit like a growl and actually hurt her throat. “Please, I’m not an amateur.”   
  
“I know that,” Mary Margaret promised. “And I don’t think he is either. That’s why I think you’ve got to talk to him. You guys can’t just keep dancing around each other. Listen, I know there’s a lot riding on this and you’ve got all this pressure to win now and you’ve got all these other teams to deal with, but…”   
  
Emma grinned. “Look who’s trailing off now.”

“I’m just saying. You said you wanted to. That’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“You’re a hopeless romantic.”   
  
Mary Margaret shook her head, eyes flitting towards the door when the buzzer from downstairs sounded. “He came here. And played video games. With you. Friends is the last word you should be using here.”   
  
The buzzer sounded again and Emma thanked some sort of god who controlled buzzers and timing and the chance to get out of a conversation she didn’t have a response to. Because friends didn’t make out on the edge of Central Park fountains – historical or otherwise. And they certainly didn’t write feature stories about each other and pointedly ignore each other after said makeouts.

That was just Emma.

She was the only one ignoring anything.

_Everything_.

Mary Margaret swung open the door, nearly knocked over by an enthusiastic Ruby and apologetic Belle and they were both already grabbing Emma’s bags and talking about traffic and Emma wondered if it was actually biologically possible for her heart to be in her throat.

“You ok, Em?” Ruby asked, stepping into the living room and she hadn’t even heard them knock the partition on the floor.

“Yup,” Emma said sharply. “Fine. Great. How’s traffic look?”  
  
Ruby narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t actually say anything and maybe Emma’s patron goddess extended her work to include buzzers and normally-inquisitive friends. “Getting out of the Lincoln Tunnel might suck, but we almost planned for that. You ready to go? Jones is downstairs with just a ridiculous amount of coffee.”   
  
“He brought coffee?”

“Texted me about my order preferences and everything. Above and beyond.”  
  
Emma bit her lip tightly and her heart was on the floor or maybe on the sidewalk in front of a journalist who, she assumed, was wearing far too much leather and black and she needed to move. “Ok,” she mumbled, just a bit more breathless than she intended and she refused to look in Mary Margaret’s direction. “I’ll be right down.”   
  
Ruby hummed, slinging Emma’s bag over her shoulder and marching back down the stairs. Emma sighed, her whole body heaving forward with the effort and she nearly hit her forehead on her knees.

The floorboards creaked when Mary Margaret moved – a hand on the back of Emma’s neck and the curve of her shoulder and this was a disaster. “Deep breaths,” she mumbled and Emma let out a strangled sound she hadn’t made since Providence and Maine and she didn’t have time for a complete emotional breakdown on the couch.

“I told him about school,” Emma whispered. Mary Margaret’s hand froze for half a second. “I told him...I told him I wanted to go back to school. Maybe when this was all over?”  
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret breathed, a look of disbelief on her face that spoke volumes about history and deep-rooted trust issues and Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted so much and felt so greedy for it.

“Right?”  
  
“Talk to him. Stop ignoring his text messages.”   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
“Please. I know you. Better than anyone, but don’t tell David that. Also, I have eyes and you have a very loud vibration setting on your phone. Made it tough to miss.”   
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh and Mary Margaret was smiling at her again, that soft look in her eyes that made everything seem to settle into place, back into order and control and she could _do this_. Absolutely. Onward or something less ridiculous.

“You are the absolute best, you know that?” Emma asked and Mary Margaret clicked her tongue. “I’m serious. I don’t...I can’t imagine any of this without you.”  
  
“Sap,” Mary Margaret accused, but her eyes were just a bit glossy and Ruby was shouting for Emma from the bottom of several flights of stairs. “Go get your coffee.”   
  
“Subtle.”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged, pushing on Emma’s shoulder and she nearly tripped over her own feet on her way out the door.

He was leaning against one of the cars pulled up in front of the building and Emma wondered when the apartment just became the de facto headquarters of the team, but she barely had time to think of any of that when she was far too busy trying to look at Killian without actually looking at Killian and it didn’t really work when she saw his smile.

She bit her lip again.

“Swan,” he said softly, only one cup of coffee left in his hand.

“Hey,” Emma mumbled. “Is, uh, is that for me?”

_Nailed it. Job well done_.

Killian’s smile widened and that wasn’t fair – she’d drawn blood on her lip. “It is,” he said, holding his hand out expectantly and his fingers were probably warm from the coffee and not just because he was him or something absolutely impossible. Emma needed to stop thinking like Mary Margaret. “So is this,” he added, tugging something out of his jacket pocket when Emma pulled the cup out of his hand.

Cinnamon.

He’d stolen her more cinnamon and Emma wasn’t sure what a loss of gravity would do to her body, but it kind of felt like she’d just lost some kind of tether. “They’re going to start hanging your photo in post offices,” she said. “Killian Jones, cinnamon thief of New York.”  
  
“Good name,” he grinned.

“You really didn’t have to do that. The cinnamon or the coffee in general.”  
  
Killian shrugged, glancing behind him when Will and Ruby started arguing about luggage placement and seating arrangements. “Children,” he chuckled and his eyes widened slightly when he looked back at Emma. “And I wanted to. The coffee and the theft. Although I don’t think they hang up wanted posters anymore, even if it’d probably spark some kind of vigilante movement across the entire city. All of them clamoring to bring me in.”   
  
“Really got a high opinion of yourself, huh?”   
  
“And my petty theft skills.”   
  
Emma laughed – easy and simple and it felt so goddamn natural, there had to be a reason for that. Maybe he was just incredibly good at getting under her skin and that wasn’t really right either. It didn’t feel like that. It felt like he was _trying_ to get her to laugh and maybe smile and her eyes had already fallen back towards his lips, at least, four times in the span of the conversation.

“Thank you,” she said and that felt natural too. “For the coffee. And, well, mostly the coffee, but I read the story the other day. I should have…”  
  
“It’s ok, Swan.”   
  
“No, no, it’s not. I mean. You’re doing your job and I didn’t even know you talked to Elsa.”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes slightly, licking his lips and he didn’t have his own coffee. “I wasn’t aware interview requests had to go through you.”   
  
Emma bristled at the comment, frustration shooting down her spine and this wasn’t going how she planned at all. She hadn’t really planned for anything.

She’d ignored it. Completely. For two weeks.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

Killian sighed, tugging on a piece of hair behind his ear and scuffing his foot on the sidewalk. Emma flinched when a trunk slammed shut. “Swan, listen,” he muttered, taking a step towards her and, naturally, someone interrupted.

She wasn’t sure which one of them groaned louder.

“What, Scarlet?” Killian asked, glaring at the photographer. He was weighed down with equipment again, three cameras on one shoulder and a bag on the other and he didn’t seem the least bit put out by the look on Killian’s face.

“We’re leaving,” Will said evenly. “Now. So either get in a car or walk to Philadelphia, Hook. Hey, Emma.”  
  
“Hey, Scarlet,” Emma mumbled, taking another sip of coffee. Will smiled at her, hitching up cameras and kicking at Killian’s ankle familiarly. “If you guys want you could come with me and Rubes. I can’t promise she’ll let you control the music, but it might be entertaining to see Will and Ruby fight in the backseat.”   
  
She glanced back over her shoulder at Killian – an apology without actually saying the words and Emma wasn’t sure it worked when his face was just as impassive as ever. “Emma are you telling me I’m going to have to sit in the backseat of a car I actually rented?” Ruby asked, disbelief in every single syllable. “Yeah, thanks, but no thanks.”   
  
Emma’s stomach was going to fly out of her body if it kept doing whatever it was it was doing on 3rd Avenue. “Ruby,” she said and it sounded exactly like the plea it might have been. There was plan. There was a music schedule and none of them had really discussed where Killian and Scarlet would go, but Mary Margaret’s voice was ringing in Emma’s ears and she was trying to _put herself out there_ or something, so naturally Ruby wanted to ride in a different car.

“Elsa can go with you guys,” Ruby suggested, glancing at the other woman who looked a bit stunned to hear her own name. “Right, El? That’s cool. Right? Yeah.”  
  
“I mean, you just answered your own question,” Elsa said and she was holding a coffee cup too. Jeez, they’d been efficient that morning. “Yeah, that’s fine. I don’t mind sitting in the backseat as long as Scarlet doesn’t kill me with photo equipment.”   
  
“I make no promises,” Will grinned, swinging the back door and nodding towards Elsa. “Your chariot, ma’am.”   
  
Killian groaned and Emma turned in just enough time to see him rolling his eyes skyward and Ruby made some kind of significant face – like she could read minds or knew about conversations she definitely wasn’t a part of and maybe Mary Margaret was right.

Emma took a deep breath, trying to draw on some sort of self-confidence she only really had when there was a video game in front of her. “You know how to navigate?” she asked, taking a step towards Killian.

“Excuse me?” he asked, but there wasn’t the bite in his voice she expected. Maybe they’d all get to Philadelphia in one piece.

“Navigation. To Philadelphia? Mostly just making sure my phone doesn’t send us into the Atlantic Ocean or something.”  
  
“I think we can avoid the ocean, Swan.”   
  
“I mean, if possible.”   
  
“I guarantee that.”   
  
Emma nodded, rocking forward slightly and she dug her fingernails into her palm so she wouldn’t be tempted to do something ridiculous like try and touch him again. Or kiss him.

This was going to be fine.

It took nearly an hour to get out of the city and it was not fine. It was the opposite of fine. It was silent and tense and Emma kept switching lanes like that would get her through traffic easier.

“Left,” Killian muttered as soon as they saw daylight again and Emma couldn’t remember the Lincoln Tunnel ever feeling longer.

“What?” she snapped, frustration boiling over and Will snickered in the back seat. She glared at him in the rearview mirror.

“You have to go left. The phone says so. And also the signs.”  
  
“I know how to read. Scarlet, I swear, if you don’t shut up and stop switching songs ten seconds in, I am going to stop right here and kick you out of the car.”   
  
“You’d ruin the car,” Will pointed out, seemingly undisturbed by threats of walking to Philadelphia. Emma went left and Will changed the song again. “That’s the last time,” he promised, but she’d heard that thirty-two times already and this was already the longest car ride in the history of the world.

Elsa was very clearly trying to fall asleep.

“It’s because he’s got no sense of self worth,” Killian said, practically ripping the AUX cord out of the stereo. Will made some kind of exclamation behind them, mumbling a string of curses under his breath.

Emma had traffic to worry about and cars merging on either side of her and they were almost absurdly behind schedule at this point, no idea where the other car was or what it was about that the Lincoln Tunnel that just seemed to breed traffic jams.

Will fell asleep eventually, camera equipment on the floor at his feet and Emma could see the jumble of limbs that was him and Elsa in the back seat. Killian hadn’t said a word, gazing out the window with just the quiet hum of the radio in the background.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said suddenly and maybe just a bit louder than she intended and Killian seemed to move in slow motion, eyebrows pulled low when he turned towards her.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “For suggesting you needed interview requests or that you guys had to come in this car or, you know, any of that.”  
  
“Any of that.”   
  
“Why do we just keep repeating each other?”   
  
Killian laughed, leaning his head back against the seat and he couldn’t have been comfortable, one leg tugged up and his elbow resting on the window. “Nervous about saying the wrong thing?”   
  
“Are you?”   
  
“Am I?”   
  
Emma sighed, but he grinned at her and this was flirting. Decidedly. Obviously. Ok. “Nervous about saying the wrong thing,” she muttered. “Because that’s kind of stupid.”   
  
“A rather pointed opinion. Enlighten me, why is that so stupid?”   
  
“Because you’re….you.” Killian raised an eyebrow at her, one side of his mouth pulled up and that was kind of stupid too. “You obviously know what you’re doing and, I mean, words are supposed to be your thing, right? You shouldn’t have to be worried about impressing me.”   
  
“You think I’m trying to impress you?”

This was not the kind of conversation they should have in the car in some unknown section of New Jersey. This was the kind of conversation they should have with drinks and dim lighting and something that might feel a bit romantic because maybe Emma wanted a bit of romance and maybe Emma wanted _him_ and she didn’t know quite what do with any of this.

“No,” she said quickly. “Obviously not.”  
  
Killian didn’t say anything for at least several miles and they drove by three different Wawa’s. “I might be,” he said suddenly and she nearly drove off the road. “Trying to impress you, I mean.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Why?” Emma asked, eyes flitting towards him and he sat up straighter in the rental car seat.

“Because you’re you,” he said simply.

“That was repeating again.”  
  
“Yeah, I realize that. Plagiarizing the conversation.” Emma laughed under her breath. They drove by another Wawa. “And I’m sorry too.”   
  
“For?”

“I’m not looking for permission to interview, but I should have let you know. It’s your team and your story as much as it’s mine. I did need another story though and we needed to drive some interest before Philadelphia. It's doing ok.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt.” Killian’s head nearly snapped her direction, eyes wide and shoulders moving and Emma gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. “I just, well, you said I should trust you, right?” He nodded. “I do. And maybe I’m kind of impressed. By you.”   
  
“I think you’re giving me far too much credit, love.”

Her fingers were going to snap in half if she held onto the wheel any tighter. And that was the first time he’d used _that_ since she’d walked out of the building. It felt important. “I don’t know about that,” Emma said. “They’re good stories.”   
  
“Charmer.”   
  
“Turn tables or something.”   
  
“Exactly that.”   
  
They fell into silence again, but it was almost comfortable and they drove by two more Wawa’s and six full-service gas stations before Emma could bring herself to say anything else. “I looked it up, you know,” she said softly, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the rest of the car was still asleep. “This guy and the sponsorship and Elsa asked me before she agreed, but I was mostly just focused on the money and not being the one team that didn’t have a corporate name that I agreed without really even thinking about it.”   
  
“Elsa mentioned that,” Killian said, keeping his eyes trained ahead of him. “Off the record she’s not a huge fan of this guy either, but he’s got money, right?” Emma nodded, that certainty that something was wrong still sitting in the very center of her. “But…” Killian prompted.

“But, what?”  
  
“You brought it up, love,” he laughed.

“Yeah,” Emma sighed. “Well, they’re New York based, right? And that’s where most of the corporate stuff is, offices and the big shipment plans and everything, but you know where else they’re located?”  
  
“New Orleans,” Killian said immediately. Emma’s grip went slack. “I can look stuff up too, Swan.”   
  
“That seems weird, right? I’m not suggesting there’s some great conspiracy here or anything, but it’s weird. It’s definitely weird.”   
  
Killian nodded. “I’m not debating the overall weirdness of it. But I’ve never seen any of those names before. Definitely not when I was in New Orleans and I knew just about everything that happened there.”   
  
“That ego again,” Emma laughed, but the sound nearly died on her tongue when she saw the look on Killian’s face. “What?”

“I think you have the wrong idea of what I’ve done, Swan,” he said softly and it sounded like he was admitting to something. She tried not to push, pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t just start shouting questions in the rental car and she wished she had more coffee. “When Liam died I...lost everything. I’d never even thought about leaving the city before then and as soon as he was gone I couldn’t imagine staying another second. I packed as soon as the funeral was over, barely said goodbye to Gina before I was on a plane and on the other side of the country.

I didn’t care what I wrote as long as I got paid and when I got to New Orleans I figured I’d just be there for a few months again and move on. Then this story fell in my lap and I thought I was, well, I thought I was doing something good. Exposing crime and names and writing until I couldn’t see straight. And there was so much, there were angles everywhere and I just kept writing. I didn’t…”

He sighed, eyes falling back down towards his the prosthetic resting on his thigh and Emma couldn’t breathe. “I ignored them, all the calls and the warnings and I kept writing and reporting and I was so sure. I was positive I could get to the top and if I could just get a few more names, then I could crack the whole thing. I didn’t.”  
  
Killian blinked, taking another deep breath and Emma nearly drove off the side of the fucking road when she realized. “You got hurt,” she whispered and he nodded slowly. “That car…”   
  
“I have no idea,” Killian admitted. “Seems almost too coincidental, right?”   
  
“Killian, I….”

He shook his head, but his eyes widened when Emma’s hand moved, fingers landing just above the brace at the end of his arm and maybe if she just _told_ him, everything, the barn and the family and the distinct lack of family, he’d understand.

She almost believed he would.

She wanted to believe he would.

“Don’t, Swan,” he cautioned. “It’s...we’ve been over this. I’m fine. And I’m definitely trying to impress you with my ability to write feature stories.”

She sighed or laughed or maybe just tried desperately not to cry in the middle of _fucking_ New Jersey and none of this made sense. “It’s working,” she admitted softly. “Even if I’m fairly certain we’re absolutely fucked with this sponsorship.”   
  
“He’s never actually been charged with anything. I looked that up too. So did Elsa. And she said her parents worked with him all the time when she was a kid. Shipped very expensive antiques all over the world.”   
  
“I know, I know. And I trust Elsa’s judgement and her not-quite-working law degree. Or I know that I should, at least.”   
  
“Seems fairly simple, Swan. Either you do you or you don’t.”   
  
“Eh, there’s that gray area though. Reserved for special cases and coincidences.”   
  
“Oh,” Killian muttered and Emma’s whole body seemed to recoil at the pity in his voice. God damn. “Yeah, I kind of figured.”   
  
“You figured what, exactly?”   
  
“Where’d you actually grow up, Swan?” Emma bit down tightly on her lip, heart hammering against her chest and she couldn’t squeeze her eyes shut because she was driving a rental car and they couldn’t screw over the sponsor. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Everywhere,” she said eventually and it felt like the biggest word in the entire world.

“And Maine?”  
  
“Not until I was fifteen and David found me trespassing in his mom’s barn. He taught me how to drive, you know, eventually. And made me come inside so I could eat.”   
  
Killian hummed, like it was the obvious answer it absolutely was. “Of course,” he said, eyes focused on her like she was a story he couldn’t quite unravel. “Did you run? Is that what happened?”

“How could you know that?”

“You’ve got that look,” he said and Emma tilted her head. He was still staring at her. “Like you know what it’s like to be alone. Even now, when you know you can trust your team and David and Mary Margaret. What did you call it? Special cases and coincidences? An orphan’s an orphan, Swan. They all look the same.”  
  
“That’s an awfully direct way of looking at it,” Emma muttered and her lungs had shrunk. Or maybe just disappeared. She couldn’t seem to take a deep breath.

“Ah, easier to deal with that way, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma admitted. “I guess it is.”

Will woke up twenty minutes before they got to Philadelphia, demanding the music and the AUX cord and Killian only gave in on the promise that he’d _shut the fuck_ up and it was the first time he’d said anything since whatever that conversation had been in New Jersey.

Emma’s lungs had recovered, but her mind was still racing a mile a minute and it was some kind of miracle that she didn’t actually kill them before they reached the hotel. The other car was already there – Killian muttering something about _your phone, Swan_ and Ruby sent sixteen text messages. All in caps lock.

“God, we’re here, we’re here,” Emma sighed, stepping into the lobby to find the rest of her team already changed and, presumably, checked in. “How much time do we have before this thing?”  
  
“You’ve got, like, twenty minutes. Tops,” Tink answered. Emma groaned. “It’s here though, so there’s that.”   
  
“Right, right, ok, well, you guys...don’t go anywhere and El and I will go get changed and...” She spun towards Killian, the back of his hair slightly askew from his fingers and this was _ridiculous_. He lifted his eyebrows, an unspoken question and he couldn’t just know things. Open book.

“Swan?” he prompted, taking a step into her space and they’d both lost any concept of lines.

“Are you coming to this?”  
  
Killian smiled, the force of it making Emma’s breath catch and she wished she’d said off the record before. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he muttered.

“Ass,” she mumbled, but it wasn’t the insult it probably should have.

Elsa coughed pointedly behind them, her own bag making her look a little lopsided. “We should probably go, right?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said quickly. “Yeah, ok, back here in twenty, tops and then we go take the entire goddamn world by storm.”   
  
“Inspiring,” Ruby drawled, but Emma barely heard her as she tried not to think about three hours in the car with Killian Jones.

Emma had been to more events like this than she cared to remember – rented rooms in hotels across the country with shitty appetizers on not-quite-full trays and t-shirts that they were all supposed to wear while they competed and it was just as ridiculous as it sounded, but it paid and, really, that’s all she ever cared about.

Until now. Maybe. Definitely

She was doing a God awful job of lying to herself. And she was almost painfully obvious.

“You’re fidgeting,” Elsa muttered, elbowing her lightly in the elevator and they’d taken twenty-two minutes to get ready. “It’s going to be fine.”  
  
“I know,” Emma promised. And Elsa was, apparently, taking face-type reaction lessons from Mary Margaret. “You really think we can trust this Weselton? I mean we’re not going to get thrown out of our rooms because the cards have been declined, right?”   
  
Elsa looked at her appraisingly and this was the longest elevator ride in the history of the world. “No,” she said and every single one of Emma’s muscles tightened at the word. “I don’t think we’ll get thrown onto the streets of Philadelphia, but I don’t trust Weselton as far as I can throw him. If we can find a different money, I’d walk away from this without a second thought. It doesn’t make sense for him to agree to it, but we’re new and unproven and we got in on a qualifier.”   
  
“So what are you saying?”   
  
“That we need to do well here. We need to drive up interest, get the hits on that latest story, don’t read the comments by the way, and then we start drumming up support from companies that are actually interested in streaming rights and branding merch.”   
  
“You think we can brand merch?”   
  
Elsa shrugged. “I think we can do anything, honestly. And so does Killian.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but the tension in between her shoulders loosened slightly she still couldn't quite get the idea of kissing him out of the back of her mind. “Have you been taking subtlety lessons from David?”   
  
“No,” Elsa laughed. “It’s just almost painfully obvious.”   
  
“God.”   
  
“It’s also not bad, you know, by default.”

Emma pressed the button in front of her again, like that would, somehow, make the elevator move quicker and Elsa laughed again, the soft sound practically ricocheting off the walls. The doors opened – the sounds from the conference room on the other side of the lobby already filtering through the space. Emma took a deep breath and tried to push the small ocean of feelings she could still feeling in every inch of her into the back corner of her mind.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s play.”

It was crowded already and they were definitely late, but it didn’t take long to find Ruby or hear Anna’s laugh, pushing their way through the room towards the telltale sounds of Will’s camera shutter clicking.

“Ah, fearless leader,” Ruby called, pushing up on Will’s arm to try and catch Emma’s attention. “Come here and get interviewed, Jones is on a roll already.”  
  
Emma shook her head, trying to push her way in between a crowd that looked like two teams and she’d already spotted half a dozen people she knew. They weren’t a very big community – with the same faces popping up as different games got popular and then less popular and shifted from consoles to PCs and back again. Several times.

Victor Whale was already trying to make his way towards Ruby, two glasses of what appeared to be champagne clutched in his hands, and he’d won the very first Halo tournament Emma played in.

Graham Humbert, and his questionably good Call of Duty skills, were on the other side of the hall, eyes finding Emma’s as soon as she looked towards him and she didn’t hesitate to smile in response. That, however, was a mistake.

She knew he was on his way over as soon as she heard the footsteps and even Elsa clicked her tongue, something that felt a lot like revulsion radiating off her. “Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards the thin, brown-haired man approaching them.

“Walsh Simia,” Emma said, tugging Elsa with her as she tried not to trip over her own feet. “I didn’t know he was going to be here too. Shit. It’s like a parade of _these are your mistakes Emma Swan_.”

Elsa hummed and Walsh didn’t follow them towards the table. _Thanks a lot buzzer-controlling goddess_. “He played Warcraft when it was cool to play Warcraft,” Emma explained. “Tried to get me to join his team, play the _girl card_ and was not pleased when I didn’t.”   
  
“Oh, I bet he’d enjoy a lot of the comments on Killian’s stories.”   
  
“Why are you reading those?”   
  
“I almost find them funny.”   
  
“You’ve got a twisted sense of humor.” Elsa shrugged and Ruby wrapped an arm around Emma’s shoulders when they reached their designated table, pushing a glass into her hands without asking if she was going to drink that night.

She wanted to do nothing but drink all night.

And ignore how much she wanted to kiss Killian again.

They ran the gamut of introductions for the next few hours – a seemingly endless supply of champagne in Emma’s hand at all times – and Killian kept holding his recorder, eyes flashing every time he learned something new.

God.

Emma had no idea what time it was by the time the room actually started to spin and she wondered how long she could actually just sit in the corner until someone noticed. Or tripped over her outstretched legs.

It took five minutes for him to find her. With a glass of water in his hand.

“You disappeared,” Killian muttered, sliding down the wall and sitting next to her without an invitation. Emma nodded – and her hit head on the goddamn wall. “Here,” he continued, holding the glass out expectantly. “Drink this.”  
  
“You don’t need to take care of me,” she hissed, but she took the water anyway.

“I’m not. I’m merely ensuring that my best quote continues to be my best quote tomorrow once we get into rules and explaining tournament procedure.”

“God, that’s going to suck. You know we have to get up at like seven in the morning? That’s insane. These are professional video game players. They live in basements and never see the sun.”  
  
“I think you’re being kind of hard on them, Swan,” Killian laughed and her arm was touching his again. She wasn’t sure he meant to do that. She didn’t care.

She also wasn’t sure if it was the questionable amount of champagne she’d had to drink already or the water he’d gone out of his way to get her or how he smiled at her when Victor recounted a particularly dramatic Halo event that ended with Emma cursing out every player in a twenty-five foot radius, but whatever it was, she’d forgotten about rules and tension and anything that wasn’t getting the information she wanted.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Killian smiled – like it was inching across his face and Emma was absolutely drunk because everything seemed to be happening in slow motion and her arm felt like it was on fire where it touched him. “You just did, Swan.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be a jerk.”   
  
“Ask your question then.”   
  
“Before. When we were in the city and taking the great fountain tour, you said you were someone else’s something to deal with and that Liam used to bring you there to plan for everything. Did...well, an orphan’s an orphan, right?”   
  
Killian froze, staring a hole into Emma and maybe if she just moved, she could kiss him or keep explaining things she’d only told four other people in the entire goddamn world and she hadn’t mentioned off the record. He pressed his tongue to the corner of his mouth, gaze tracing down from her eyes to her lips and back up again and it wasn’t nearly as crowded anymore, but it was still loud and she could hear him when he took a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”  
  
“When?”   
  
“When what?”   
  
“When did everyone else leave?”

His eyes flashed towards hers, but he kept his back trained against the wall and maybe they should stop having conversations like this. “Not all of it was on purpose,” Killian muttered, tugging the glass back out of Emma’s hands and she got the distinct impression he needed a distraction. “My mother died when I was eleven. Liam had just been named an officer, barely finished packing and, suddenly, he was a guardian to a kid and a ramshackle apartment on 120th Street.”  
  
The room suddenly felt very small.

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered and she saw the quick quirk of his lips.

“I’m fairly certain it isn’t your fault, Swan.”  
  
“Even so. I didn’t...I didn’t realize.”   
  
“You weren’t supposed to,” Killian said, finally turning his head to look back at her. “That was the point of trying to impress. Distract appropriately with feature stories and several thousand hits and it almost looks like I’ve got it all together, huh?”   
  
Emma nodded. “Almost,” she mumbled, twisting her arm slightly and that was _absolutely not_ the alcohol. That was...something else in entirely.   
  
“Follow-up?” Killian asked cautiously. Her heart picked up again, but she nodded anyway and tried not to actually hold his hand. “If you ran how did you wind up back with David and Mary Margaret again?”   
  
“No mind reading part this time?”   
  
“There’s no mind reading, Swan. You’re just, occasionally, easy to read.”   
  
“Only occasionally?” Killian did something absurd with his eyes – all blue and _meaningful_ and he hadn’t had anything to drink. Probably something about the job. And how much he wanted to prove. She didn’t mention that. “David found me,” she said and the words weren’t nearly as hard as she expected them to be. “Mary Margaret’s not great at letting go. So even after I ran, she...kept at me, like I was some DIY project she wasn’t finished with yet. I was in Providence, trying to figure out how to turn a video game talent into a career without a degree and he showed up at my door and brought me back to school with him.”   
  
“Ah, that explains the coffee shop, but not being in class with Ruby.”   
  
“Connecting those dots.”   
  
“It helps when I’ve got a little background to go on.”   
  
“That’s not really my strong suit.”   
  
“Yeah, I know. You know some guy tried to ask me to talk to you about him.”   
  
Emma groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and it wasn’t possible to get a hangover while still drunk, right? God, was she drunk? She might have been. A professional liability. “Let me guess,” she sighed. “Walsh? Wanted to give you some exclusive about how I turned down, how would he put it? The opportunity of a video game lifetime?”   
  
“That’s exactly what he said, actually.”   
  
“He’s the human embodiment of a broken record. Are you going to quote him?”

“That you turned down a spot on a Warcraft team that doesn’t even exist anymore? No, Swan, I’m not.”

“Generous.”  
  
“It’s not part of the story.”   
  
Emma wasn’t sure if he meant to say it that way – like he didn’t care how she got there, just that she was there and her arm kept touching his, but it certainly sounded that way and maybe she’d lost complete control of the conversation. “What is the story, then?” she asked.

Killian turned, bumping his knee with hers and he didn’t try to touch her again, but he stared at her intently and Emma tried to consider how many brain cells would suffer if she didn't breathe soon. “What happens next,” he said.

One of them moved. They must have because Emma was closer to him than she remembered being and she was fairly certain she hadn’t ever learned how to teleport because she certainly wouldn’t have spent an hour in traffic if she could do that, but she couldn’t remember actually moving. She was just there.

And so was he.

Right in front of her.

“Em?”

Her whole body sagged forward, frustration and disappointment and that flash of concern in Killian’s eyes shooting through her. “Swan?” he asked, reaching his hand out and the world was just one giant joke because they couldn’t seem to find even ground and the room kept spinning and the voice a few feet away from them was inevitable.

Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth, trying to take a deep breath through her nose and she didn’t actually get off the ground when she saw Neal Cassidy for the first time since she was seventeen years old.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. She knew it was going to happen. She just didn’t really expect to be champagne-buzzed and sitting on the floor with Killian’s hand wrapped around her shoulder when it, finally, did happen.

He looked older. There were crinkles around his eyes that hadn’t been there when Emma found herself in the backseat of a cop car and his hair was far shorter than she remembered it being.

“Hey,” Emma said and Neal actually laughed and smiled and looked at her like he hadn’t let her sit in jail for a year. “We’re leaving.”  
  
The smile faltered for half a moment – nearly dropping off his face entirely when Killian stood up and offered Emma his hand. She took it without a word or an argument and neither one of them made a move to let go of the other.

“No, no, come on wait two seconds,” Neal said quickly, stepping in front of Emma and Killian’s hand tightened. “I wasn’t trying to interrupt or anything. I just, well, I’ve been trying to find you all night. I wanted to say hey.”  
  
“And you’ve done an admirable job of that.”   
  
“How’ve you been?”

Emma rolled her eyes, disbelief in her laugh. She was still holding onto Killian’s hand. “That’s how you’re going to start this?”  
  
“I mean, not really. I started it by telling you I’d spent most of my night looking for you. I think I drove my team insane.” His eyes flitted back towards Killian and Emma could almost _hear_ him thinking. Maybe that was a side effect of the champagne too. “Hey,” Neal continued, jerking his hand out in front of him. “Neal Cassidy.”   
  
Killian tensed, glancing at the outstretched hand in front of him and Emma brushed her thumb over the back of his palm – some kind of misplaced _encouragement_ that probably didn’t work and crossed that line she’d drawn in the metaphorical sand in the last two weeks.

“Killian Jones,” he said, taking Neal’s outstretched hand.

“Are you playing?”

They were drowning in metaphors. And unspoken meaning. And a shit ton of champagne. Maybe that meant the League was financially stable. That would be encouraging.

“No,” Killian answered. “I’m a reporter, actually.”  
  
Neal blinked, staring at Emma like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “Em, for real?” he asked. “You’re hooking up with a reporter?”

Killian looked like he was going to kill Neal. Emma _felt_ like she was going to kill Neal, fury shooting down her spine and settling in the pit of her stomach until she was fairly positive that every inch of her was actually on fire. She took a step forward, appreciating the quiet way Neal muttered under his breath at the move.

“Don’t try and find me again,” she said softly, far too aware of Killian behind her. “Don’t talk to my team. Don’t talk to anyone that isn’t directly associated with whatever shitty Peter Pan pun you’re playing underneath. I’m done.”  
  
Neal gaped at her – the words practically hanging in the air and there were still a few stragglers in the corner of the room, but she could barely hear him when he mumbled _ok_.

“C’mon, love,” Killian muttered, hand landing on the small of her back as he tugged her towards the double doors. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
She didn’t argue or try and pull his hand away and Neal didn’t move an inch as soon as they stepped around him, Killian nearly punching the elevator button when they moved into the hallway. Emma wished she’d stop getting scared by elevator _dings_ , but she walked when Killian pushed lightly on her back and they’d lost all concept of personal space.

He hit another button and she really was the worst team captain because she had absolutely no idea how they booked these rooms or who made sure they were all in some kind of clump, but Killian seemed to know what he was doing and maybe that’s what changed everything.

She nearly lost her balance when she moved and if Emma was the kind of person who believed in signs, she probably would have been frustrated by that one, but Killian’s hand tightened on the back of her dress and held onto the front of his shirt like some kind of cotton-anchor and he was just as good at kissing in an elevator as he’d been while sitting on a fountain.

He was taller than her.

She knew that before, of course, but between the alcohol and the introductions and how goddamn good he looked _all the time_ Emma nearly forgot about height differences and even in heels she had to push up on her toes to reach his lips.

He helped.

Killian’s arm wrapped around her tightly, tugging her up until her right foot nearly popped out of her shoe and she wasn’t thinking, just _moving_ and feeling, arms wrapped around his neck until she was fairly positive she could feel him everywhere. Emma stumbled when he tried to move, to push her back towards the wall and she gasped when her back hit against metal.

“Swan,” Killian groaned and she smiled at the wrecked sound of his voice. He took a deep breath, tongue sneaking between his lips when she tried to balance on one heel and managed to cant her hips. “God, _fuck_ , Emma, love...you can’t…”   
  
He didn’t say anything else and for one vaguely terrifying moment she thought he was going to say something about _being a gentleman_ or the questionable amount of champagne only one of them had. He didn’t

He kissed her.

_He kissed her_.

He kissed her like he would have been content to do nothing else for the rest of his life.

Emma sighed against him, fingers carding through the end of his hair and one hand moving back towards his jaw and she’d probably to have to thank several different deities for wherever he’d learned to do that thing with his tongue.

Part of her knew it was insane. Part of her knew she’d just seen Neal Cassidy for the first time in more than a decade. Part of her knew Killian was desperately trying to do his job and maybe trying to impress her and several different ghosts, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to consider any of that and she _wanted_ far too much to be worried about anything except the feel of his hands on her back.

Both hands.

The elevator dinged again and Emma mumbled under her breath, goosebumps breaking out on her skin from the wall and that tongue thing.

“We’ve got to move,” she muttered, not bothering to pull away from Killian’s mouth and she could feel the smile on his lips.

“Yeah we do,” Killian agreed. Neither one of them moved.

She tried to catch her breath and remember when she’d just become a completely different person – probably sometime after the second Wawa and before Killian could read her mind – and Emma stepped out of her other heel, grabbing them both off the ground and nodding towards the hallway when Killian gaped at her.

“You coming?” she asked.

“Yeah.”  
  
He stayed half a step behind her, like he couldn’t quite decide how to fall into rhythm with her again and Emma tried not to glance over her shoulder every two seconds, tugging a keycard out of her pocket and coming up just short of the door.

“Swan, I...” Killian started, but Emma shook her head and she heard his jaw click when he snapped his mouth closed.

“What happens next, right?”

“Exactly that.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded, fingers trailing over her arm and there were more goosebumps and his eyes were just way too blue. It was distracting. “I’ll bring the coffee this time. No doubling up on orders.”

Killian smiled, Emma’s toes curling against the hotel carpet when his hand fell back to her hip. “Good night, Emma,” he said softly. He kissed her again – quick and brief and he’d called her Emma.

Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh.....Neal's the worst. Emma and Killian can't stop flirting. Or making out. More Philadelphia coming. More drama. More video games. 
> 
> Thank you so much guys for continuing to click, comment and read. It means the absolute world. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	11. Chapter 11

He woke up with a start when he felt something that might have actually been a pound of bricks land on his back. It happened three more times before he acknowledged it.

Killian groaned into his pillow, kicking at the edge of the bed and whoever his attacker was, not quite conscious yet and not quite able to think about anything except Emma and how easy it would have been to slip his hand underneath the bottom of her shirt or bring her anywhere that wasn’t the door of her hotel room at the other end of the hallway.

Oh shit.

His hand. He hadn't even thought about, hadn’t even considered it, just acted on instinct and the feel of her against him and she hadn’t said anything.

Of course she hadn’t. She wouldn’t. Right? Maybe. No, it didn’t matter.

He got hit by a pillow again.

“Are you kidding me, Hook?” Will yelled and he must have practiced that wind-up because there was no way he could just get that much force behind the pillow without taking a few swings first.

Killian cracked open one eye, trying to glare at his friend and the pillow might not have actually been filled with bricks, but it hurt like hell when it crashed against his face.

“What the fuck, Scarlet?” Killian growled, practically jumping out of the bed and that was, clearly, what Will wanted. The self-satisfied smirk on his face was infuriating. “What time is it? Why are you assaulting me?”  
  
Will rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t assault. That was a wake-up call. Of the very important variety.”   
  
“It’s way too early for this.”   
  
“You just asked me what time it was.”   
  
Killian kicked him and it could have been fall semester, freshman year for how well this conversation had been going.

They’d hated each other at first – answering an ad on the internet was, after all, not the best way to find a roommate or someone to consistently pay the rent – but there weren’t many other choices and Scarlet didn’t have any sort of jarring details in the background check Liam made Killian pay for.

It didn’t matter. They still hated each other for the first three months – things getting more and more passive aggressive until there was some sort of actual mountain of disgusting, dirty dishes sitting in the sink and the stalemate turned into something that was a little, _a lot_ , immature and, eventually, something snapped and they washed the dishes.

That seemed like a turning point.

And this seemed like they’d just jumped back nearly a decade.

Will eyed him, the pillow still held threateningly in his hand and Killian sank back onto the edge of the bed. He didn’t have the mental capacity to think about all of this at once.

He was going to go insane.

“What time is actually, for real, though?” he asked and Will dropped the pillow.

“Not even six yet. Your alarm’s about to go off.”  
  
“Why do you know that?”   
  
“Years of practice and experience. And we’ve got to to be down there by seven, you wouldn’t make me get up before you because that would be asshole territory and I’d seance Liam so he’d come back to haunt you for that.” Killian gaped at Will, considering his own plan of pillow-based attack, but there was, apparently, still more to discuss. “And, the most important part of this, you’re totally going to go buy more coffee, so you’ve got to get up earlier for that.”

“Nah, Emma’s going to do that today,” Killian said before he could stop himself and he barely saw Will move before the pillow was thrown across the room and hitting him squarely in the jaw. “Jesus Christ, Scarlet, enough with the goddamn pillow!”  
  
“Were you ever going to tell me?”   
  
Killian felt his heart stop – actually stop, he was sure of it. He didn’t care about how medically impossible any of that was. The room seemed to spin slightly or maybe just shift on its axis and maybe that was just the entire world and he’d touched her with both of his hands.

Pressed up against the wall of an elevator.

In Philadelphia.

“That’s not anything,” Killian muttered, hooking his chin over the pillow and he could only imagine what he looked like. Will furrowed his eyebrows, confusion settling on him like some kind of weird, emotional cape. “It’s...we’re just friends. Co-workers. Kind of.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”   
  
His heart started again, picking up quicker than Killian could ever remember it beating and it was silent enough in that not-quite-comfortable hotel room that he was positive Will could hear it. “I...have no idea,” Killian admitted, trying to keep his voice from sounding guilty.

He didn’t have anything to be guilty about.

Right. Yes. Definitely. Absolutely not.

Just ethics and lines and it was getting more and more difficult to breathe with Will’s confused stare practically boring a hole in his face and his phone vibrating on the table and if this were something different, some other timeline where things went the way he wanted, Killian would have told Emma Swan how much he wanted her.

Desperately.

“Ariel just called me,” Will said sharply, nodding towards Killian’s phone. “That’s probably what’s happening over there too.”  
  
“I thought it was early. It’s not even six o’clock yet.”   
  
Will glared at him. “Can you at least silence that thing? This’ll go easier if I’m not distracted.”   
  
“Oh, God forbid you’re distracted,” Killian mumbled, but he grabbed the phone anyway and then nearly dropped it. He had sixteen text messages from Ariel. “What the hell is going on?”   
  
“The phone, Hook.”   
  
Killian kicked at him again – well aware that there was too much space and not enough space, which was weird to feel all at the same time, but he was starting to piece things together and Scarlet didn’t know about Emma.

No one knew about Emma. And him. If there was an Emma and him. There had to be. Except those two weeks of radio silence and he hadn’t really tried to talk to her either because there were _rules_ and so much on the line and he was absolutely trying to impress her.

“You just barely hit your mark, Hook,” Will continued and he actually got off the goddamn bed to kick at Killian’s ankle. “Ariel was worried you wouldn’t, I guess. She’s been, wait for it, trying to get in touch with you since yesterday.”  
  
“It’s Saturday.”   
  
“She is, also, apparently worried about you. Because you’re a goddamn fucking idiot.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s exactly what she said.”

“Paraphrasing.”  
  
“That’s against the rules,” Killian muttered, cringing at his own words and maybe he really was a goddamn fucking idiot. He needed to shower. “So...she told you about the thing? With Cora?”   
  
“The thing with Cora,” Will repeated skeptically, sounding like the words had insulted him or reached out and beaten him with a pillow. “You mean you taking your entire career into your own hands and hinging it on hits, like a complete…”   
  
“Goddamn fucking idiot, yeah, I got that.”   
  
“I’m going to murder you,” he warned, still standing and pacing and Killian couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen Scarlet that worried.

No, that was a lie. He knew exactly when he’d seen Scarlet that worried and it all seemed to be a bit of a trend, falling back on moments and mistakes and rash decisions that left the city in some kind of metaphorical rearview mirror.

Killian remembered a string of curses and insults then – the pillow thing was new, but Will had tried to punch him then too, hauled off and connected on the side of Killian’s jaw and told him Liam _would be disappointed_ and it was the last thing he’d said before the door slammed shut behind him.

“That’s aggressive,” Killian said. He sighed when he realized his voice wasn’t quite even and maybe he was more nervous about the deal with Cora than he let on because the story with Elsa had gone well, but the comments were...well, the comments were to be expected, he supposed, but they set his teeth on edge and they’d barely hit the number mark.

Apparently.

He hadn’t looked.

A goddamn fucking idiot and absolute coward.

“Why?” Will demanded, coming up short mid-pace and Killian shrugged in confusion. “Why would you do that? And why does Ariel know? Does Gina know?”  
  
Killian’s eyes widened and his breath caught again and maybe that was _terror_ shooting down his spine, but he could just make out his phone lighting up again and they really couldn’t do this now.

They were going to be late.

“God, no, don’t tell Gina,” Killian said and it sounded like begging. Will stared at him like he’d been replaced by a humanoid replica of himself and it kind of felt like that. “You can’t tell Gina, she’ll...she’s already got enough to deal with as it is.”  
  
“I don’t understand. Why would you tell Ariel any of this? We barely know her.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s a bad person by default. And she saw me talking to Cora. After the first story ran. I don’t know, I just, I told her.”  
  
Will blinked, crossing his arms and Killian could hear him breathing. “Ok,” he said slowly. “So you have the hit count and Cora...does what?”   
  
“Keeps running the stories,” Killian said simply. “She’s the one that pulled the original one. Said she was only doing it because Gina agreed to a whole bunch of other shit when she brought me in, but she wasn’t impressed by the hit count, so she yanked it and, well, Emma didn’t…”   
  
“Freaked, yeah, Anna told me.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
Another pillow fell off the bed when Will dropped onto the side, eyes wide and hands moving quickly in front of him. “Nothing, nothing, we’re not talking about that,” he mumbled. “So you agree to the hit count and Cora agrees to run the stories. That almost makes sense. Why was Ariel calling me at not-quite six in the morning to make sure you knew you hit, then?”

Killian groaned and Will did an admirable job of almost looking patient while he waited for a response. “If I don’t hit, I walk.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“Exactly what those words mean.”   
  
“No, I don’t get it,” Will shook his head. “Walk where? Up Broadway?”   
  
“Don’t be an idiot.”   
  
“I’m serious, Hook, you’re not making any sense.” It took three seconds, one vaguely loud gasp and another pillow _whack_ for Will to understand what, exactly was going on. “Holy shit,” he hissed. “You’re serious? You told Cora that?”   
  
Killian nodded. “Told her she could even actually rip up my contract. I felt like it added a flare to the dramatic, you know?”   
  
“Why? Jesus, Hook, you just got back here! We’ve been...we’ve been trying to get you to come back here for fucking years and now you’re just going to walk if you don’t hit, what, a hundred thousand a story?”   
  
“Two hundred,” Killian breathed and Will hit him again. “God, you’ve got to stop that. I’m going to show up bruised to this thing. And did you say _we_ , as in some kind of collective unit?”

Will made some kind of noise, something that sounded like a snarl or a particularly pissed off animal, and he took several breaths before looking at Killian again. “You’re kidding me, right? You honestly don’t know that?”  
  
“There was no point in me coming back before. There was nothing for me in New York.”   
  
“Shit, Hook, pour some acid on the wound, why don’t you? We were all here. You could have stayed at _The Post_ , Gina could have gotten you something full-time or you could have just come to Mills from the start or kept the freelancing gig. There were a million and two reasons for you to stay in New York.”   
  
Killian shook his head, tongue pressed on the inside of his teeth and he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Will. It didn’t matter. He kept talking anyway. “You missed it, Hook,” Will said sharply. “Henry and Rol and you were so certain the entire goddamn world was out to get you that you refused to even consider the idea that _your_ corner of the world was desperately trying to get you to believe in something again.”   
  
Will’s shoulders heaved when he clamped his jaw shut, a muscle in his temple ticking and he glared at Killian like he was challenging him to disagree.

He didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was because he was fairly positive he’d found a reason to stay in New York.

His phone lit up again.

“Why?” Will asked again, voice low and gruff and just a bit desperate and this conversation had fallen off the rails completely. “Why would you agree to walk? Again. You can’t keep doing that.”  
  
“I’m not,” Killian argued.

“Yeah, right. Ariel was certain you were some kind of journalistic goner. She could barely get the words out she was talking so quickly.”  
  
“The story is good. There’s not anything to worry about.”   
  
“I know the story is good, but two hundred is a lot for a lifestyles thing and it’s not like there’s a ton of other sites that are desperately seeking long-form and…”   
  
“Scarlet,” Killian said sharply. Will gaped at him. “The story is good. The hits are going to come. I’m not going anywhere.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah. Are you done beating me up now because I’d really love to shower before we go downstairs.”

Will nodded slowly, tossing Killian his phone when it started looking more like some kind of actual light than a communication device. “Tell A you’re not getting fired,” he grumbled. “She was honestly really worried. And I think she broke into the back side of the site to figure out the hits or something.”  
  
“She’s a hell of a receptionist.”   
  
“No, she’s not.”   
  
“That too,” Killian laughed, some of the worry melting off him only to reform as some kind of emotional weight that threatened to tug him straight through the floor as soon as his eyes landed on the message in front of him.

**6:15 am: If you were going to order some kind of breakfast sandwich and or baked good, would you have a preference?**

He moved towards the bathroom, mostly so Will couldn't see whatever was happening with his face and that was a conversation Killian absolutely could not afford to have. There was another message – with a picture.

**6:18 am: Ok, so you didn’t answer promptly, which I’m assuming means you’re either still asleep or not interested in breakfast choices. So you get to pick from the generic pastry selection that the rest of the team is getting. Your loss.**

Killian felt the smile on his face as soon as he kicked back on the door and he could just make out the ends of her hand, holding onto a box of a dozen donuts and one bear claw and this had to work.

He needed the hits.

He needed to keep writing this story.

If only so he got to keep talking to Emma.

**_6:20 am: I’m awake, Swan, and impressed with your pastry selection. Any of those are fine, love. Thank you._ **

**6:20 am: Donuts only. The bear claw is mine.**

**_6:21 am: Noted._ **

**6:23 am: I’ll see you downstairs. With coffee. As an added bonus.**

He didn’t answer – thrown completely off schedule by a questionably determined receptionist and a friend who, despite what the pillow may suggest, had his best interests at heart and a space on his couch for the last two weeks and, most importantly, memories of how easy it had been to lace his fingers through Emma’s.

The whole lot of them were sitting in four chairs in the lobby by the time Killian and Will managed to get downstairs – a mess of limbs and breakfast pastries and slightly sleepy smiles and his eyes found Emma as soon as he stepped out of the elevator.

“Hey,” she said softly, barely able to move her head with Ruby draped over the arm of the chair she was sitting in. It didn’t matter. He heard her anyway and, maybe, _felt_ her too and it sounded as absurd in his head as it would have out loud. “Just barely coming in under deadline, counselor.”   
  
“That’s still not the right term, Swan,” Killian smiled and those magnets were back again.

He pressed his arms against his side, trying not to move too quickly or too desperately. Elsa was staring at him, gaze far too knowing and Ruby nearly knocked the box of donuts off the table they’d dragged towards their cluster of chairs when she jumped towards them.

“Leave the word arguments for later,” she commanded, grabbing the box and pushing it unceremoniously into Killian’s chest. “There are two very generic, plain glazed donuts in there because you don’t know how to answer your phone.”

Will clicked his tongue in disappointment, but he grabbed a donut anyway, hardly pausing to chew as he tried to keep the several cameras hanging off his shoulder from falling on the floor.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Killian mumbled, grabbing his designated breakfast pastry and trying to keep his eyes trained away from Emma.

She was looking.

And so was Elsa.

And the entire goddamn team.

“Yuh huh,” Ruby muttered unconvinced. “Well, you guys are here now, although I don’t know why Scarlet brought all that equipment with him. Scarlet, why’d you bring all that equipment with you? Zelena’s going to kill you if you infringe copyright or however it works.”  
  
“‘Scuse me?” Will asked, barely able to get the words out through a mouthful of donut. Killian squeezed his eyes closed and his feet were moving before he even realized his brain had decided that sitting on the arm of Emma’s chair was something he was even considering.

“Hey, again,” Emma said softly, tilting her head up to smile at him and he pushed his heels into the ground.

_Be more obvious, Jones_.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer quickly enough to dictate my own breakfast preferences,” he muttered. Killian moved his arm, draping it over the back of the chair and nearly around her shoulders and it was absolutely to try and maintain his balance.

If only because he never quite felt steady when Emma was around him.

“That’s alright,” she continued. “I wasn’t...well, you’re not obligated to respond immediately. For breakfast preferences or, you know, anything else.”  
  
He tilted his head, fingers finding the sleeve of her shirt and Emma bit her lip when he brushed against her skin. “I realize it’s not an obligation, love. I’m not suggesting otherwise.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open slightly and he was still _touching her_ , right there in the middle of the goddamn lobby and no one seemed to have noticed. They were all talking about schedules and copyright infringement and how they had to pose for promotional photos later that afternoon.

“Jones,” Ruby said sharply and Killian nearly fell off the chair.

“Yeah,” he said, blinking quickly and his entire hand felt like it was on fire. Or crackling. Something less painful than that. “What?”  
  
“Were you even listening to me?”   
  
“Yes. Absolutely. Copyrights.”   
  
“Jeez, Hook,” Will sighed, but he almost looked amused, shifting cameras again and grinning Anna’s direction. “That wasn’t even remotely convincing.”   
  
Killian shrugged. “It’s still early. Alright, Lucas, what did I miss?”   
  
Ruby glared at him – an unimpressed look that got a little more dramatic when she sighed. “Scarlet can’t take photos today because we are on League time all day today. Emma had to get some kind of permission slip from Zelena to even let you guys down here. We go in there, get some ridiculous orientation on the League, like we’re not all painfully aware how it works, then we come back out here, and wait our turn to take ridiculous pictures that they can then use to promo on the site.”

She took another breath, pointing at the team-branded t-shirt the entire team had on. Killian hadn’t even noticed that. “So, we show off our fantastic shirts and winning personalities and then we try not to starve because apparently no one knows how to schedule breaks in this place and…”  
  
“God, there’s more?” Killian interrupted and Emma elbowed him in the side.

“The last part is the most important part,” she said.

Ruby hummed in agreement, the glare on her face seemingly permanent at this point. “Shut up,” she snapped. “And then, last, but absolutely not least, we sit on some panel that’s being broadcast live across several continents and we try and become the fan favorites of this entire, stupid tournament.”

She exhaled, shoulders heaving again and nearly taking off Will’s arm when he tried to push a camera in her face. “God damn it, Scarlet, what did I just say?” He took a picture. Ruby rolled her eyes and Killian was fairly certain he didn’t imagine the way Emma seemed to lean back, maybe towards his side and they couldn't do that.

This had to be...he didn’t care.

He just wanted and he could hardly remember what that felt like until it showed up in the form of blonde hair and green eyes and questions about breakfast preferences.

He was a goddamn selfish asshole.

“Did you listen to all that this time?” Ruby asked, staring intently at Killian. “Because I’m not going to repeat it all again.”  
  
“Absolutely, Lucas,” he promised. “10-4, one-hundred percent, over and out.”   
  
“You’re an ass.”   
  
“Ready and willing to learn the ins and outs of this game and this tournament so you all can take over the entire internet in the next few months.”   
  
“You think it’s going to take a few months?” Ruby shook her head and the plan was almost _blatantly_ obvious, the slightly predatory glint in her eyes making Killian lose some of that early-morning bravado. “Please, we sit on that panel today, we charm the entire goddamn world and, soon, those comments stop playing sexist crap and absurd questions about our knowledge and we set the brand-new standard of professional play.”   
  
“She’s got a whole plan,” Emma mumbled, but there something that sounded a bit like pride in her voice. “Although we really are going to charm the entire goddamn world on that panel. And every single asshole in that room who thinks we aren’t going to win.”   
  
He believed her.

That wasn’t enough.

He believed in her. And that felt like something much bigger.

“I’ve got no doubt, love,” Killian said honestly, ignoring Ruby’s quiet laugh when the nickname or _endearment_ or the fucking honest to God truth seemed to just fall out of his mouth.

“Alright,” Ruby continued and she was very coherent for whatever time it was. Nearly seven. It had to be. “Go team, or break or whatever. Let’s go try and learn something we don’t already know, huh? Scarlet, you can’t bring those cameras in there, Zelena will honestly kill you.”

Will tried to argue and the rest of the team was already moving towards the conference room and a line of tables Killian could just make out around the double doors. Emma didn’t move.

“That’s yours,” she said, pointing towards the lone cup left on the table. “Just straight, because for some kind of ridiculously large city, there’s a distinct lack of Starbucks and espresso options open at six in the morning near this hotel.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, leaning forward to grab the coffee. “That’s not anything to rationalize, Swan. There’s not an espresso quota to reach.”   
  
“Yeah, I just...wanted to get it right, I guess.”   
  
He turned at the sound of her voice – the question within the statement that she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask. Maybe. _Maybe this could work_. And some tiny, dormant voice in the back of his mind seemed to roar to life and do several jumping jacks at even the idea of that.

“You had to get permission for us to be down here?” Killian asked and that wasn’t the question he’d been planning on asking.

Emma blinked, stuttering over the top of her own coffee cup and she scrunched her nose before answering. “Yeah, well, it’s a lot of fairly boring stuff. And most of it is just procedural, things that we have to get out of the way so the League won’t get sued by overzealous teams who want to make more money or are pissed that this one’s a blind draw for the teams that got in on the qualifier. That’s what they’re going to do now.”  
  
“Do what?”

“First-round pairs and bracket placement and if we get a five seed again, I’m actually going to flip a table. Or several.”  
  
“Scarlet will be disappointed he won’t be able to photograph that.”   
  
“Luckily for him I don’t know that I’m actually capable of destroying the furniture,” Emma laughed, teeth pressing into her lower lip and he was still sitting on the arm of the chair. Her hand fell against his leg, sending a shock up Killian’s spine that felt a bit like actual electricity. “Maybe I’ll just see if I can find whatever champagne fountain they bought last night. Or buy out the shitty liquor supply at the Wawa around the block.”   
  
“Ah, that’s where the breakfast pastries came from.”   
  
“Smart guy.”   
  
Emma didn’t move her hand and his arm had worked around her shoulders at some point, tracing out patterns just underneath the edge of her sleeve and this was dangerous. Killian didn’t care about that either.

“I, um…” Emma started, tugging her lips behind her teeth and he could feel her breathing underneath him. “About….yesterday, last night, I mean….”  
  
Ah, there it was.

_Idiot_.

“Swan, you don’t…” Killian mumbled, staring at his shoes and he hadn’t expected it to feel so disappointing. Or overwhelming. He felt like he was drowning in the middle of a Philadelphia hotel lobby. “You don’t need to explain it, love. I...know…”  
  
She gaped at him, head snapping up and eyebrows pulled low and maybe neither one of them was particularly good at swimming through metaphors. “What’s happening right now?”   
  
“I’m apologizing?”   
  
“What? Why?”   
  
Killian felt the rush of heat in his cheeks, knew his eyes widened and Emma’s hand on his knee felt like some kind of weight, tugging him even further below the waves or the feelings or the distinct drop in hits from one story to the next. “Because,” he said and her lips turned up at the strangled sound of his voice. “Well, it’s not...there are…”   
  
He wished he could finish a sentence.

Or remember a single word.

“Rules,” Emma finished softly and Killian felt his stomach drop. He nodded. “Yeah, that’s....” She sighed, tongue darting out quickly to lick her lips. “I was trying to apologize. I shouldn’t have...I don’t…”  
  
They were the worst conversationalists in the history of the universe.

“You don’t need to do that, Swan,” Killian mumbled, not sure what any of his organs were doing and his stomach was definitely still sitting on the ground and it felt like his lungs were filling up with something that could be emotion, but might have just been metaphorical salt water.

Emma nodded slowly and her breath caught when she realized she was still touching him – eyes falling on her hand and his knee and she yanked it back quickly, tugging it against her side and wincing when she managed to elbow herself in the side in the process.

“Right,” she breathed. “No, I mean, that’s...God, I can’t think when you do that.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“I don’t know. Sit there. Or try and get me to drink water when I’ve had a ridiculous amount of champagne.”   
  
Killian laughed softly. Drowning. Definitely drowning. “It’s different when it’s free, Swan. The drinks don’t count then.”   
  
“You’re well acquainted with these rules, then?”   
  
“Maybe,” he shrugged, hit by a particularly aggressive wave. He’d lost track of the metaphor. Cliché? Analogy? It didn’t matter. God, he wanted to kiss her. Or maybe date her. He’d never really done that. Not even... _get a grip, Jones_.

“Interesting,” Emma muttered and it sounded like she meant it. “You are...confusing.”

“Why is that?”

“Every time I think I’ve got a handle on you, you do like a ninety-degree turn and there’s some other side there and I can’t quite get a grasp on it. It’s exhausting.”

“Sounds frustrating.”  
  
“I mean, I’m not frustrated by you, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I just can’t understand why you’re doing this. There’s no story that’s worth all of this.”   
  
Killian tilted his head – far too aware of the waves and the emotions and he was barely keeping his head above water and he just wanted Emma to _trust_ him. “Ah, see, that’s where you’re wrong, love,” he said, rocking towards her “And I’m not just doing it for the story.”

Emma blinked – something that looked like disbelief flashing across her face before it morphed into something else that Killian couldn’t quite understand. “You’re going to win, Swan,” he continued. “The whole goddamn thing. No matter what seed or what happens today or who tries to talk to me about what he would consider _a really fantastic sidebar_.”

She laughed, a quiet, shaky sound that seemed to work its way into the very center of him, some kind of flame that could probably withstand several different metaphorical tides. “I wanted you to be here,” she said softly and the flame was a fire and an inferno and he couldn’t keep himself from touching her if he tried.

He absolutely didn’t.

“We…” She took a deep breath and stared straight at him – determination and certainty and maybe hope. “We understand each other, right?” Killian nodded. “And you were right. I don’t, well, belief isn’t my strong suit. It’s never been, but this is a team and looking out for just myself has gotten kind of old.”

“I just, well, you could be part of this too, you know what I mean?” Emma asked and he did. He knew exactly what she meant. And that’s exactly why he’d agreed to hits and the job and why he’d kissed her back in the elevator the night before.

He was so far gone for her.

“What happens next,” Killian muttered and it wasn’t really an explanation or a response, but it might have been a promise.

She beamed at him, wrapping fingers around his wrist and tugging him back up next to her. “C’mon, they’re going to wonder where we went.”

There was already someone standing at the podium when they walked into the room – Killian’s fingers trailing across Emma’s back and it was like a dam had burst and he really needed to stop thinking of so many ridiculous water-based clichés.

“We saved you seats,” Elsa mumbled when they snuck into the back corner. She shot them a knowing look and Emma eyed her meaningfully, but her hand found the back of his wrist under the table and the dam was on fire or going haywire with electric shocks and the woman at the podium was still talking.

“You know that’s the first time I’ve seen Zelena,” Emma whispered, groaning slightly when she realized there was some kind of PowerPoint presentation as well. “Oh, my God, what is this fifth grade?”  
  
“Ninth, at least,” Elsa shot back. “Make us high schoolers. And I didn’t think she’d actually lower herself to come down here and explain the rules to us herself. I figure she’d just, I don’t know, sit there and let some lackey pick our names out of a goldfish bowl.”   
  
“That’s a very specific set of expectations,” Will laughed on her other side. He had a notepad in front of him and a pen in his hand and his chair scraped loudly on the floor when he leaned back to stare at Killian. “How come you’re not taking notes, Hook?”   
  
“I literally just sat down, Scarlet,” Killian hissed at the same time Ruby growled _both of you shut the fuck up_. 

“Yeah, how come that happened? I got back up to the room, put the equipment away and still managed to get back here before the video game queen started barking marching orders at us.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a good name for her,” Emma mumbled in approval. Her hand hadn’t stopped moving.

Anna snorted, drawing a glare from one of the teams in front of them and Killian couldn’t remember if he’d actually brought a pen with him. He tried to tug his phone out of his back pocket and these were the noisiest chairs in the world, scraping loudly across the floor. “Oh my God,” Ruby grumbled, dropping her head into her hands.

“No, pen, huh?” Emma asked.

Killian rolled his eyes, trying to smack Will on the shoulder and his arms were nowhere near long enough for that. “Scarlet,” he snapped. Zelena was still talking, clicking through slides and the team in front of their table was still glaring at them, wide-eyed stares like they couldn’t quite believe anyone would dare disrupt the moment. “Scarlet, give me your notebook.”  
  
Will shook his head, pen scratching over the paper while Zelena explained something that sounded like first-round rules. “Nah, be more prepared, Hook.”

“Oh my God.”

“Can’t you just record it?” Emma asked, nodding towards his phone, but that was apparently one question too many because the room seemed to freeze and Killian could feel someone glaring at them.

Zelena Akers didn’t look like the commissioner of a video game league, but Killian didn’t look much like a longform feature writer and the team he had suddenly found himself apart of didn’t look like the favorites to win that same video game league, and Emma’s hand hadn’t stopped touching him since they sat down, so it seemed like all bets were off when it came to _should have beens_ and _expectations_.

“Is there a problem?” Zelena asked, voice cracking across the entire room and Ruby finally pulled her head out of her hands. Will kept taking notes.

“No,” Emma said. She sat up straighter, rolling her shoulders and it was like she grew several inches right there next to him. “We’re fine, Zelena.”  
  
Zelena quirked an eyebrow, brushing her long, red hair off her shoulder and nodded once before, clicking to another slide and the room seemed to explode when it, collectively, realized it was the bracket.

Emma shifted again, hand falling away from Killian’s wrist and Elsa exhaled softly on his other side. “God damn,” Ruby muttered and it only took him another two seconds to realize what had happened.

It wasn’t a good draw.

It was, in fact, a complete shit draw.

They weren’t a five seed. They weren’t even a single-digit seed. They were a fourteen-seed and Emma was almost visibly seething next to him.

Killian laced his fingers through hers without a word and that was probably for the best because they couldn’t get yelled at by Zelena again.

“Alright, alright, enough,” Zelena snapped, eyes flashing at the crowd like she was daring any of them to argue again. “This was a blind draw and it was done this way because of that very reaction. There’s no room for debate here. These are your matchups, this is your challenge and this is how it’s going to work. So you play who you play and we’ll decide on maps and positioning once we get to the first round next month.”  
  
There was more noise and more complaints and Emma squeezed Killian’s hand tightly. Zelena tapped her fingers on the podium, frustration obvious in the movement  “Auto-bid teams kept their seeds from the original bracket,” she continued. “Qualifying teams were reseeded to make sure that talent was spread across the board. There will be no changes made going forward. Win and you keep playing. Lose and we sign your base salary check and you’re out. There are, however, ways to make a bit more than your base.”

The entire table moved at that – Will’s pen sounding like an anvil when it crashed back onto the table and Emma was going to do dangerous things to Killian’s circulation if she held onto his hand any tighter.

Zelena took another deep breath, surveying the crowd and smiling slightly when she realized she’d seized control again. “We’ve already seen a boost in subscriptions from streaming possibilities through the site and that number’s going to go up if the stakes are a little higher. So let’s raise the stakes a little bit, shall we?” The room mumbled again and her grin got even wider. Ruby rolled her eyes. “Win and there are a considerable number of zeroes waiting on a comically large cardboard check. More than we originally announced.”

She clicked another slide and Anna mumbled _oh shit_ under her breath as soon as the plan showed up on the screen. Zelena laughed softly. “The league is confident in this tournament and the interest,” she said. “We want to reward our winners for that interest because this only happens if all of you,” she surveyed the crowd, nodding towards them like some kind of benevolent video game ruler, “make it worth it. So we stream the events, we do promo work, you are on contract with us for the next nine months and whoever comes out on top at the end of that splits the, now, three million dollar prize. Five-hundred a player’s not so bad for video games, right?”

Someone shouted something and none of them moved – a table full of video game players in matching shirts with their journalism contingent frozen by the sudden addition of even higher stakes.

Killian wished he’d brought a pen. If only to write down how much he suddenly had to lose if this didn’t work.

Zelena kept talking and there were, at least, thirty more slides, but he barely paid attention to any of them, far too preoccupied with Emma next to him and the furtive glances Ruby kept shooting their direction and how Elsa kept twisting the end of her hair around her finger. Anna looked like she was going to fall asleep on Will’s shoulder, Belle twisted around to rest her back against the chair next to her and Tink was the only one who didn’t look particularly troubled by the sudden addition of a winner-takes-all, three-million dollar prize.

He didn’t let go of Emma’s hand until Zelena stopped talking. Or maybe the other way around. Killian wasn’t worried about the specifics of it.

“Well,” Elsa said as the teams started to file out of the conference room and back towards a schedule and a different conference room and, likely, an absurd amount of photo equipment that Scarlet would try and personally inspect at some point. “That makes things interesting doesn’t it?”

“Has anything like that ever happened before?” Killian asked and he should have done some more research.

Elsa shrugged. “In major tournaments with major sponsorship deals, not in anything that’s just getting off the ground.”  
  
“It means they care,” Ruby added. “They want us to care too and they want people with twenty bucks and the ability to sign up for the League’s own streaming service to be interested. They make this some kind of winner-takes-all bonus prize thing instead of just our salaries and whatever we can make off branding and suddenly it’s like a real thing.”   
  
“Was it fake before?”   
  
“You ask very frustrating questions.”

“It’s a talent, honestly,” Killian grinned.

Ruby laughed, slinging her arm over Belle’s shoulders and muttering something about vending machines and stalking their first-round team and it only took a few moments before the rest of the team followed, leaving Killian and Emma sitting at the table, fingers laced together in between their chairs.

“You alright, love?” he asked softly, thumb brushing over the back of her palm and she nodded before the question was even finished.

“Fine.”  
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Honestly.”

“Emma.”  
  
Her head jerked to the side, eyes dark and close to _furious_ and she yanked her hand out of his grip. “Don’t do that,” she said. “This is...that’s so much money. That could change everything.”   
  
“It is,” Killian agreed. “But it’s not like the salary wasn’t a lot of money either. You were always going to try and win whether there was some great, surprise prize at the end or not.”   
  
“God, you are infuriating when you’re right.”   
  
Killian scoffed, ducking his head and leaning forward until the chair made noise again and his knee brushed against Emma’s. “You want to flip the tables because of the seed?”   
  
“I mean, a little.”   
  
“Just makes a better angle, Swan. Underdogs.”   
  
“I hate that phrase.”   
  
“More like a word, honestly.”   
  
“Stop being right all the time, it’s stupid.”   
  
He grinned at her, resting his hand on hip and he nearly fell off the goddamn chair when Emma’s hand landed on his prosthetic. “I’m intrigued by this banter thing we’re doing, Swan. It almost feels like flirting.”

“Does it? Weird.”  
  
Killian’s eyes flitted back towards her mouth and, God, he could just make out the tip of her tongue against the corner of her lip and he wanted to be anywhere except the conference room of a Philadelphia hotel with another schedule looming over him and _even more_ riding on this goddamn video game.  

“Weird,” he mumbled and they should really work on that repeating thing, but he’d worry about that when he wasn’t busy kissing her.

He was willing to stay busy for quite some time.

In the grand scheme of the two times they’d done this – well, three, technically, he’d definitely _kissed her_ at some point the night before and maybe on the fountain and maybe they’d done this more than he realized – the kiss in the conference room wasn’t much more than a brush of lips and fingers on cheeks and it was over before it really started.

His body didn’t seem to realize. It felt like his lips were _tingling_ or something absurd and Emma’s fingers were still wrapped around the plastic at the end of his arm, seemingly untroubled with the distinct lack of anything there and if he didn’t realize he was absolutely falling before, there was no way to ignore it now.

Not when he felt like he was staring at _everything_ all at once.

“You’re way too good at that,” Emma mumbled, resting her forehead against his and she hadn’t used hotel provided shampoo because she still smelled like raspberries and a bit like coffee and maybe he was drowning in that too.

“Seems like a joint effort, love,” Killian said softly. She smiled.

“Are you trying to prove a point by being right about everything? And we really need to go, Ruby’s going to actually try and stalk that team and that’s just going to end with Walsh complaining to Zelena about us. We’ll probably get suspended or something.”  
  
He kissed her again. And she flinched slightly, but she didn’t push him away either or do anything that felt like following the rules they’d never actually talked about.

“Come on, Swan, we can’t let Lucas attack some video game monkey unprovoked. I’d be obligated to write about it then and there’s just no good lede there.”  
  
Emma smiled.

Will did inspect the photography equipment – drawing the ire of at least three League employees and sending Anna and Tink into matching fits of hysterics that set the schedule back a solid ten minutes.

“You’re a disruptive presence,” Killian sighed when Will was chased back to the corner of the room and he was taking pictures with his phone. “God, put that away.”  
  
Will rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue and that seemed like a monumental victory. “I am documenting, Hook. What are you doing? Why aren’t you writing?”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century.” Killian shook the phone in his hand, not taking his gaze away from the screen and it wasn’t easy, but they weren’t supposed to be there and he was mostly trying to make sure he didn’t forget anything.

“You got an angle?”  
  
“Always.”   
  
“And it’s some great state secret then?” Killian rolled his head onto his shoulder, staring at Will expectantly and only getting a grin in return. “I’m letting you sleep on my couch, Hook. I deserve answers.”   
  
“You demanded I sleep on your couch because you were too lazy to order an air mattress.”   
  
“Semantics.”

Killian hummed, typing again and he probably should thank Will at some point because the hotel was expensive, but the couch wasn’t quite comfortable and he hated Midtown. Even if Gramercy wasn’t, technically, Midtown.

It was still too goddamn loud.

“The money,” Killian admitted eventually. “It’s obviously the money and the generic frustration of a fourteen seed.”

Will nodded, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth like he was trying to prove how _not impressed_ he was. “It’s an ok angle.”   
  
“High praise.”

The photographer shouted instructions at the team – demands for poses and things that felt decidedly cliché if not a bit problematic and Emma refused all of that quickly, the look on Killian’s face drawing a questioning glance from Will. He tried to brush him off, but he was still trying to type and there was another team standing in the doorway a few feet away.

The guy from the night before was back – Neal something and that wasn’t right. He’d been too distracted before to notice it, the weight of Emma’s hand in his leaving Killian’s mind just a bit muddled and he couldn’t even remember Neal’s last name now, but he was absolutely positive it wasn’t what he’d introduced himself as.

“Hook,” Will said slowly, leaning forward and Killian didn’t answer. He kept staring at Neal trying to place him and finding himself more and more frustrated when he couldn’t. “What exactly is happening with your face?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Killian admitted. “That guy look familiar to you?”   
  
Will followed his gaze and shrugged, lower lip jutted out slightly. “Nah, none of them do. Why?”   
  
“He looks kind of familiar and he tried to talk to Emma last night.” Will’s eyebrows did something vaguely judgmental and Killian felt a flush of frustration shoot through him at that. “No, no, not like that. Stop. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”   
  
“You mean last night?”   
  
“Why are you being an idiot?”   
  
“You’re doing weird things with your face, I’m just trying to make sure I don’t get sued for copyright infringement if I take pictures again.”

“Stop trying to take pictures,” Killian muttered distractedly, barely hearing Will’s quiet mumblings when he stood up and tried to get a better look at Neal whatever his last name was. It wasn’t Cassidy.

It took one camera snap, another refusal by Emma to _pose like that, god, we’re playing the game too_ and Killian’s knees nearly buckled when he realized.

It wasn’t even Neal – it was the guy standing a few feet behind him, hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes staring a crater into the floor and Killian recognized that nervous tick.

Jefferson Helm was a low-level lackey for the ring known in several award-winning articles as the Lost Boys and Killian wrote about how his testimony had helped the New Orleans police department bring in several mid-range lackeys and that had happened seven years ago and he couldn't be in Philadelphia.

“Hook,” Will said, suddenly behind Killian and he nearly jumped when he heard his own voice.

“I’ll be right back,” Killian mumbled. He didn’t wait for Will to argue.

There was an industrial sized coffee maker in the lobby and he nearly knocked the whole thing over in an effort to get some undoubtedly shitty caffeine into his system and it almost felt like the entire world was falling apart.

And he groaned at his own melodrama – and the scalding hot coffee that splashed onto his hand when he stopped paying attention to what he was doing.

“Killian,” Emma said softly, a hand landing on his shoulder and he shuddered slightly. “Hey, what’s the matter?”  
  
He shook his head, trying to smile convincingly and he knew it didn’t work as soon as his eyes meet hers. “Nothing, Swan,” he lied. “Just needed some air and some silence from Scarlet.”   
  
“Did something happen with Neal?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I saw him and his Peter Pan squad come in while we were finishing. He didn’t did he? Because I might actually kill him. Or Ruby will.”   
  
“You have a very violent friend, love.”   
  
She laughed softly, but something in the shift of her shoulders made it almost painfully obvious that they’d transitioned from jokes to _serious_ and he’d left all of that – had shut the door on New Orleans and everything it took from him and one low-level lackey who’d, probably, already done his time was not going to change that.

Not when Emma Swan was standing in front of him.

“I uh…” she started, twisting her lips slightly and there was still coffee dripping off his hand. “Well, I wasn’t totally honest with you before. Or didn’t really explain anything the way I probably should have.”  
  
“You don’t have anything to explain, love. We’re not on the record.”   
  
“No, I...I mean this is kind of important. And explains Ruby’s murderous tendencies.” Killian widened his eyes, waiting for the explanation and Emma sighed softly, digging the toe of her shoe into the floor. “Neal and I, we, know each other. From a long time ago. After I ran and before I made it back to Maine and yesterday was the first time I saw him since all of that.”   
  
Fuck.

God fucking damnit. God fucking damnit and several other expletives that he couldn’t think of when he was trying not to kiss Emma again in the middle of the lobby and work that vaguely terrified look off her face.

“And last night wasn’t, well, I mean it wasn’t totally a reaction to that,” Emma continued, barely getting one word out before she started the next one. “But I should have started with that and I knew he was going to be here and on that team and Ruby hates him and David’s been trying to come up with alibis so he can also murder him and make it look like an accident since the qualifying tournament and it’d be so him to say something to you or, I mean, he already did kind of right? You know feel free to cut me off at any point.”  
  
Killian smiled, that fire in the pit of his stomach flaring back to life as soon as he felt fingertips brushing across his forearm. “He didn’t say anything, love. I really just needed some air.”   
  
“We’re not exactly friends.”   
  
“Yeah I gathered that when you told him not to talk to you again. I do have one follow-up though.”

“Of course you do,” she grinned. “Go ahead, but rules are rules. That means I get my own question too.”  
  
“You keep mentioning this Peter Pan stuff. What’s the name of the team?”   
  
Emma made a face, eyebrows pulled low and the ends of her mouth tilted down and everything seemed to hinge on her answer. “Second Star,” she said and Killian shook his head in confusion. She blinked at him – once, twice and he was probably still breathing, but the sudden lack of gravity in that hotel lobby made all of that a bit of a challenge. “That’s the first time they’re playing under that name. I can’t believe he’s playing with Jefferson though. I was certain they drifted apart years ago.”

He really should just bring a pen with him everywhere now – for notes and lists and organizational purposes that might keep him grounded or sane. This was _impossible_. “He knows Jefferson?” Killian asked and Emma’s face shifted again, falling back into confusion and concern and what looked a little bit like trepidation.

“Do you know Jefferson? That can be my follow-up.”  
  
“You don’t need to waste your follow-up on that, Swan.” Emma shook her head and he’d promised her honesty. He tried not to sigh too loudly. “I knew of Jefferson when I was in New Orleans. I’ve never actually met him.”   
  
“New Orleans,” Emma repeated and it wasn’t a question. “But...that was...shit.”   
  
“I don’t think one thing has to do with the other, Swan. It’s just a coincidence.”   
  
“You believe that?”   
  
“Yes,” he lied, blatant and obvious and maybe just a bit offensive, the word hanging there in the air in front of them.

He was starting to resent the entire city of Philadelphia a little bit.

“Ok,” Emma said, hands falling back to her side. “We’ve got to go stream our panel thing. They’re probably going to ask us more absurd and vaguely sexist questions.”  
  
“Probably.”   
  
One step forward, eight-thousand steps backwards with millions of dollars hanging over them and memories lingering in the background and he still couldn't come up with metaphors that didn’t include some form of nature.

He stood in the corner during the panel, back pressed up against the wall with his recorder running in his pocket and Will’s complaints about _seriously, no pictures here, either_ ringing in his ears, determined to focus on now and this and maybe what happened next and as soon as Emma answered the first absurd and vaguely sexist question she got –  _we know how to play the game, strangely enough our gender doesn’t dictate that and we’re going to win this whole thing, quote that_ – Killian knew he’d managed to do it. At least for one moment.

Because what happened next was suddenly very simple – he fell in love with Emma Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger? Kind of cliffhanger? Things are happening. And connecting. And there's way more to this than just video games. Thank you guys for every click, comment and kudos. I really, really appreciate you sticking with this story and reading this story. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	12. Chapter 12

“You’re famous.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, leveling Anna with the same stare she’d been trying to perfect for the better part of the last fifteen minutes.

It didn’t work.

It hadn’t worked once.

She wasn’t sure why she thought it would change.

Anna stared at her imploringly, holding her phone out, like that would, somehow, convince Emma that she was, now, some sort of social media celebrity. Ruby and Elsa were never going to stop laughing.

“Will you two stop?” Emma asked and the eye roll evolved into something that felt a bit more like a glare and Ruby laughed even louder. She slid down the chair in the hotel lobby and wished they weren’t back in the hotel lobby because being back in the hotel lobby meant one thing – she had to act like a professional and prep for some sort of promotional tournament they were streaming that afternoon and the only thing Emma wanted to do was drown herself in a questionable amount of better-than-expected coffee from the Wawa down the block.

There wasn’t time.

And her mind couldn’t seem to settle on particular thing to be worried about.

Or come to grips with the idea that, maybe, Anna was right about that whole social media celebrity thing.

“This is good, Emma,” Belle said softly, not the first time she’d pointed that out. Ruby cackled. “People are talking about you, they’re talking about us. Anna’s gotten, like, five-hundred new Instagram followers in the last twelve hours.”

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, leaning her head over the back of the chair until her eyes went crossed and the automatic doors behind her looked a bit out of focus.

She hadn’t been trying to draw some kind of internet spotlight.

Honestly.

Although it might be good. It was _definitely_ good. She was just throwing some kind of temper tantrum in the lobby.

And mostly she’d been pissed off. That was the only reason she’d even said anything – the first vaguely absurd, absolutely sexist, wouldn’t have been asked if she wasn’t wearing eyeliner type of question setting off an already short fuse in the back of Emma’s mind and the words just seemed to pour out of her before she could really take stock of what she was doing.

Ruby had gaped at her the whole time, something that felt a bit like pride radiating off her, and Anna and Tink had actually _whooped_ when Emma snapped her jaw shut, glaring at the moderator like she was daring the asshole to ask her something else about _whether or not an all female team was a disadvantage._

Asshole.

So she’d talked and her voice picked up and she was fairly positive she’d seen Killian trying not to smile too widely in the back of the conference room.

She couldn’t think about that either. Well, no, she thought about that a questionable amount the night before – Elsa’s quiet breathing evening out somewhere in the realm of midnight and Emma was supposed to room with Ruby, but that whole no team dating rule had lasted five minutes, apparently, and Ruby wanted to stay with Belle and the room assignments went to shit rather quickly.

It was more than enough opportunity for Emma to think about how good Killian continued to be at kissing – Had she told him that? She’d definitely told him that, jeez – doing her best to convince herself that maybe this was, somehow, ok and not breaking several dozen rules of professionalism and that worked about as well as arguing her current status as social media celebrity and video game hero.

She should have told him the truth about Neal.

No, she couldn’t do that. That would be a disaster. On or off the record.

And he knew Jefferson. In New Orleans.

God, she just wanted to play video games.

“You know I’ve had a thought,” Ruby announced, jerking Emma out of musings and a painfully pitiful attempt to convince herself that she didn’t _care_ about Killian.

“Color me surprised,” Emma muttered, wincing when Ruby kicked at her ankle. “Jeez, reign in on the violence, Rubes. At least wait until it’s virtual.”  
  
“See, that’s where I’m going with this. Where’s Jones? I bet he’d have some sort of opinion on this.”   
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows, gaze flashing towards a visibly confused Elsa and Belle. Anna kept talking about follower count. “You’re trying to get advice from Killian?” Emma asked. “I didn’t think you were all that impressed.”   
  
“I didn’t think you were all that impressed,” Ruby accused and Emma’s breath caught in her throat, some enormous bubble of oxygen that seemed to weigh down on her chest.

“His stories are good.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“Where are you going with this?”

Ruby rolled her eyes, a frustrated growl working its way out of her and Emma had not had enough coffee for this. “We need some kind of internet presence,” Belle explained, resting a hand on Ruby’s. “Bigger than the story, or at least, more consistent to the story and then the stories can kind of bolster that and we can bolster the story and it’s a never ending thing.”  
  
“The circle of journalism life,” Ruby muttered, flashing Emma a conspiratorial grin.

“That makes no sense at all,” Emma sighed.

“It does if you think about it. Anna’s already got a pretty good base from the couple of times she’s streamed GTA, so she pushes the Instagram thing, we document in real time, build the brand and suddenly we’re gagillion’aires pulling in ratings and becoming the League favorites.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma said quickly. “Anna used to stream Grand Theft Auto? Are you kidding me?”

Ruby shrugged and Anna almost looked embarrassed, glancing up over the top of her phone. “I’m really good at it, actually. And also really good at bringing in viewers who think it’s hysterical that sweet, little me is going to wreck through Los Angeles. I really like running people over.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
Anna tried to smile, but her phone _dinged_ again and that, apparently, meant more comments or more followers and the video had something like _a ridiculous amount of hits, Emma_ and the whole thing was kind of overwhelming.

“Ok, so let me get this straight,” Emma continued, sitting up a bit straighter. “We’re all in on this? Being some kind of beacon of women playing video games light? With Instagram photos? And those comments? Aren’t we dealing with enough of that shit on the stories?”  
  
Belle nodded in understanding, making a face when Ruby groaned louder. “Those comments are always going to be there,” she said and something in her voice actually made Emma breathe easier. “But this lets us promote on our own terms. That’s why Ruby wants to talk to Killian about it. It’s kind of a partnership on the partnership if that makes sense.”   
  
Emma hummed and it did make sense, but it was _more_ and another avenue for people to know her and see her and ask more questions and that was enough to send a shockwave of terror through every inch of her.

She needed to get in front of a screen with a controller in her hand. She needed to kill something virtually. She hoped she was good at whatever map they were going to be forced to play that afternoon.

Emma wasn’t sure she could cope with losing at this point.

“I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think it made sense,” Ruby said, tapping her finger on Emma’s outstretched leg. “That’s why I want to see what Jones thinks.”  
  
“And you’re just going to trust his opinion?” Emma asked. “Just like that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”  
  
Emma sighed, defeat settling in the pit of her stomach and she wasn’t sure if the sound she made was an actual agreement or just acquiesce, but she was half a second away from announcing how much she absolutely did trust Killian’s opinion and that was more dangerous than Instagram stardom or whatever social media plan her team had come up with.

“Also,” Anna muttered. “They already embedded the video on _The Caller_. Will told me.”   
  
Emma blinked, not sure who to look at or glare at. “What?”

“Yeah, last night or early this morning or something. I guess the receptionist did it?”

“Ariel?”  
  
“Maybe. I was only half paying attention. There were a lot of names and I think Henry was involved?” She shrugged, eyes darting up quickly when she noticed someone on the other side of the lobby. “From what Will said, Henry saw the video, told...someone and the video is on the site now. There are a couple of sentences that went with it, but it’s not Killian’s name.”

There was not enough coffee in the entire world to deal with any of this.

Emma exhaled loudly, head suddenly feeling far too heavy for the rest of her body and that ball of _whatever_ that had been sitting in the middle of her suddenly felt like it was full of lead.

“Hey,” Will said brightly, slinging an arm around Anna’s shoulder and that was who she’d been smiling at. God damn. “What are we talking about?”  
  
“Did you embed Anna’s video on your site?” Emma snapped. She didn’t remember standing up. Or taking a step towards a no-longer smiling Will.

He shook his head. “I’m just here for the photos, Emma. I don’t know how to do any of that shit. That was all A. It’s good though, right?”  
  
Emma gaped at him, breath coming in pants, half positive that the lead balloon had exploded now and was working its way through her entire bloodstream.

That couldn’t be healthy.

“So that’s not good then?” Will continued and he couldn’t seem to look her in the eye. “Henry was psyched though. He might honestly start your fan club. Gina’s going to pissed when she finds out he was texting Hook all night.”  
  
“What?”

She needed to come up with another word, but her mind wasn’t really working as quickly as she needed it to and that might have been because of the lead in her bloodstream or the voice she could hear just a few feet away from her. Emma spun on the spot, Killian leaning up against the corner with something that looked like _rage_ on his face and his phone pressed up against his ear.

He had two cups of coffee in his hand.

“It wasn’t his idea,” Will muttered, reaching out to twist Emma back around. “He wanted to ask you first, but Anna was already getting all those hits and it was late and Locksley told Ariel to get it up on the site. I don’t think he even remembers writing those couple of graphs.”  
  
This was not real life.

This was insanity.

Emma Swan was not an internet star. Emma Swan did not have the son of a media mogul telling his dad and a receptionist with hacker-like tendencies that she was some kind of hero. She was a high-school dropout with questionably good hand-eye coordination and a fiercely competitive streak that made her want to prove herself as soon as she opened her eyes every morning.

God, she was totally an internet star.

“Don’t yell at him too loud, huh?” Will grinned and Emma didn’t even bother answering before she jogged across the lobby.

She didn’t have to yell. Killian was doing a pretty good job of that already.

“Take it down,” he snarled, one foot pressed against the wall and that was probably going to leave a mark. The entire city of Philadelphia was going to end up hating them by the time this was all over.

A voice on the other end of the phone mumbled something and Killian’s whole body tensed, squeezing his eyes shut as he tapped his teeth together. Emma reached forward, trying to make sure he didn’t drop the coffee in the middle of the lobby and, naturally, she brushed against the back of his hand.

He nearly jumped a foot in the air.

“Swan,” Killian sputtered, the voice on the other end still talking. Or lecturing. It sounded a bit like a lecture. “Did you...one of those is for you.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that,” Emma smiled. “Are you being yelled at?”   
  
“No. I’m being explained to, which is somehow worse.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
The voice shouted something that was almost discernible and Killian groaned, shifting his shoulder and letting the phone drop in his hand. “Yup,” he said, answering a question Emma hadn’t actually heard. “No, no, Locksley, I’m totally listening. I have heard every word you’ve shouted, documented it and promise to, at some point, analyze it thoroughly. Yes, that’s absolutely me being a dick.”   
  
Emma laughed, not quite able to take a sip of coffee and Killian’s eyes flashed towards her – something just on the edge of his gaze that looked a bit like hope and felt a little like want and he’d gotten her coffee.

Again.

There was cinnamon in it.

“Still here Locksley,” Killian grumbled, an apologetic look on his face. Emma shook her head, the lead turning back into something a bit more human and she glanced over her shoulder before she reached a cautious hand out, resting her fingers on the arm at his side.

“Could I?” Emma asked, raising her eyebrows and Killian looked a little stunned. Robin was still talking in New York.

He nodded slowly, dropping the phone in her palm and she was fairly confident he’d meant to brush his fingers over the back of her wrist. “Robin,” Emma said, hoping her voice sounded like someone who was comfortable with the idea of Instagram famous.

The voice stopped talking immediately. “You’re not Hook,” he muttered, surprise clear in every single letter.

“Yeah, that’s true. This is Emma. Swan. Emma Swan, I heard you got Ariel to put that video up on your site.”  
  
Killian tensed in front of her, but Emma shook her head again and her right hand hadn’t actually moved away from his left, tracing over his forearm and the curve of his elbow and they really need to stop _touching_ each other. That wasn’t making this any easier.

“Uh, yeah,” Robin mumbled. “I did. And I wrote those graphs, so you don’t need to blame Hook for that. It was just...well, it was a good video. Henry’s already drafting the specs of your statue.”  
  
“That so?”   
  
“Absolutely. He’s wearing the shirt again, camped out in front of the computer for the stream, so you guys better win.”   
  
“No pressure or anything.”   
  
“None, actually,” Robin admitted. Emma glanced towards Killian, visibly torn between tugging the phone away from her and staying frozen in the corner of the lobby. She squeezed her hand on his arm and he took a deep breath. “Henry’s already certain you’re going to win the whole thing, the three million and everything. Plus, the video’s really helping hits and that’s a very, very good thing.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah, well, we embed the video with a couple graphs, link back to Hook’s other two stories and now that one about the sponsorship is flying through the roof. Or something that makes more sense than that. I would have told Hook that, but he was too busy yelling at me.”   
  
“I think he’s calmed down a little bit actually,” Emma said and Killian smiled at her. “Was the Elsa story not doing great before?”   
  
There went the smile. Emma lowered her eyebrows, Killian’s lips pressed together tightly and Robin made some kind of noise on the other end of the phone – a disagreement, but not quite and it sounded like he was actually in pain.

“Eh, it did ok,” he sighed. “Not as good as the first one, but the video’s helping and it’s better if we build off that. Make you guys look like people.”  
  
“Are we not actually people?”   
  
“Relatable, then. You’ve got an opinion, people agree with it, they start clicking on other things. That’s just how the internet works.”   
  
“The circle of journalism life,” Emma mumbled bitterly.

Robin chuckled lightly, but there was still a tinge of concern in the sound and Emma knew she was missing something. She took another gulp of coffee. “Yeah, exactly that,” he said. “Listen, I don’t need to actually talk to Hook again, so if you could just tell him to bring it down, like, at least forty-six notches and remember how to breathe and that he agreed to hits, then that’d be great.”  
  
“I can do that.”   
  
“Thanks. Henry says good luck.”   
  
Emma nodded – well aware that the only person who could see her was the slightly nervous looking reporter in front of her – and handed Killian back his phone. He nearly ripped his jeans when he tried to stuff the thing in his back pocket. “Whoa,” Emma cautioned. “What’s the matter? And I thought you said El’s story did ok?”

“It did,” Killian said. “Two hundred as of...yesterday at like six in the morning. That’s what Ariel told me. And Scarlet.”  
  
“Why is the receptionist in charge of all of this? That can’t be normal, right?”   
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”

Emma sighed and she didn’t know what _exactly_ , just that she had questions and follow-ups and he’d bought her coffee again and couldn't seem to stop his eyes from widening every time her fingers even came close to the brace at the end of his left arm.

“And nothing, Swan,” Killian said, like that was supposed to be some kind of answer. “I’m sorry about the video, but Henry and...I didn’t even know Scarlet and Locksley were planning any of this until this morning and they’ve been talking about…” He shook his head, taking a deep breath and the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Anyway, that’s apology coffee because the video really is driving hits and the comments are, actually, good and, well, you were good. Last night, I mean. We should have led with that.”

He took another deep breath when he finished and Emma wasn’t sure what way was up or down or sideways, just that he’d said _all of that_ and bought her apology coffee and spent, at least most of his morning, yelling at his editor.

For her.

Because he thought she was going to be mad.

“We got there eventually,” Emma said. “I’m not here to critique your story structure. And they better credit Anna’s Instagram on that story-whatever or Ruby’s going to rage. She’s got some social media plan for us.”  
  
“Yeah?” Killian asked, interest obvious in his voice.

Emma nodded. “She wanted to talk to you about it. Something about a circle and helping each other out and, well, maybe it’s a good idea. Especially if you’re trying to reach hits.”

Killian’s eyes widened, all blue and nerves and Emma could see every single muscle in his throat move when he swallowed, lips parted slightly like he couldn’t believe what she’d just said. “What?” he breathed, clearly trying to keep his voice even and impassive and it didn’t work.

“Robin said…”  
  
“Robin has no idea what he’s talking about.”   
  
“Ok,” Emma said, dragging the word out until it felt like several paragraphs underneath her video on _The Daily Caller_. “Are you sure you’re ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”   
  
“I’m fine, Swan.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the video.”   
  
Emma took a step forward and there wasn’t enough space in the corner for that. Her shoes hit against his and she swore she could feel him everywhere even when he wasn’t touching her and there must have been some sort of deeper meaning to that, but she was already trying to cope with internet stardom and the expectations of a not-quite-teenager and whatever Killian’s face had done when she mentioned the word hits.

He didn’t tell her to move.

“You’re not my internet protector,” Emma muttered, appreciating the way his lips quirked up at that. “You don’t have to try and regulate everything that goes online because you think I’m going to freak. It was already there even before it got to _The Caller_. Anna’s an Instagram mogul now.”   
  
“I don’t think that’s the phrase you were looking for, love,” Killian said softly and Emma laughed under her breath. “Although you were impressive absolutely destroying that ass yesterday.”   
  
“Compliments.”   
  
“Honesty.”   
  
“You going to write today?”   
  
“Locksley might walk to Philadelphia and push me into traffic if I don’t. We get the push from the video and you all rolling through whatever this special event thing is.”   
  
“Ah, you sound like you totally know what’s going on,” Emma smiled, pressing her hand flat against his chest and someone was going to see.

“I’m getting there,” Killian said. He ducked his head slightly and he didn't look quite as nervous anymore and they were definitely flirting again.

They were playing with fire.

She could dimly make out the team on the other side of the lobby – Will instructing Anna in _proper camera technique_ and Ruby talking over them with thoughts on followers and some kind of series and Tink muttering something about who they were going to face first in this not-quite-tournament, tournament.

Emma didn’t move and Killian’s hand fell on her hip.

“Uh, Emma?”

She froze. She wasn’t even sure she was still breathing and that ghost Killian had spotted a few minutes before seemed to have reappeared when his hand tightened against her.

Emma never knew much about Jefferson, just that he knew Neal and had, maybe, worked with him _before_ and none of this added up to much more than her being paranoid, but she wished her vaguely sordid history would just leave her the fuck alone.

They couldn’t be doing that again.

They were just here to play video games.

And Emma couldn’t even make herself believe that in her head.

“Emma,” Jefferson continued, but she hadn’t turned around or moved away from Killian and that fire was now some kind of emergency because they were still trying to occupy the same few inches of space in the corner. “Uh...you got a couple seconds to talk?”  
  
Killian’s hand tightened again and Emma winced when her skin pinched under her team-branded shirt. She tried to widen her eyes or look like this wasn’t the strangest weekend she’d experienced in her entire goddamn life, but it didn’t really work and Killian was far too busy glaring at Jefferson to pay much attention to her.

“Ah, well, fuck,” Jefferson mumbled and Emma finally turned at that, the surprise and frustration in his voice whipping her around quickly. “Neal was totally right. You are here. Huh.”  
  
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Helm,” Killian said. “Change of career, then?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Interesting.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes – exasperated and tired and she wished they could just get the fuck out of Philadelphia. “What do you want, Jeff?” she asked, ignoring Killian’s reaction to _that_ and she really should tell him the truth.

She couldn’t afford to do that.

She had to impress the Internet.

“I want to talk to you,” Jefferson said evenly. “Just for a second, honestly.”  
  
Emma huffed and she was going to give herself a migraine if she kept trying to roll her eyes into the back of her head. She absolutely already had a migraine. “Fine. Three minutes. That’s it.”   
  
“Swan,” Killian muttered, but she shook her head, lips pressed together tightly and she really didn't need to be saved in a hotel lobby either.

Nothing was going to happen.

It was insane to think otherwise.

Definitely. Absolutely. She really hoped so.

“Three minutes,” she repeated, doing her best to sound confident. “You can go tell Scarlet that I didn’t actually try to kill you. He was very worried on your behalf.”  
  
“Please, he was certain I’d come back and haunt him if you killed me. He was only worried about his own deep-rooted fear of poltergeists.”   
  
Emma grinned, Jefferson tapping his foot impatiently a few feet away. “It’s his lucky day then. Go, Rubes wanted to discuss social media attacks anyway.”   
  
He didn’t kiss her – and Emma tried not to be absurdly disappointed by that, far too aware of Jefferson and the report he’d likely be obligated to make to Neal as soon as his three minutes were up – but he did brush his fingers across her side and smiled softly at her and maybe they should talk about this.

Or them.

There might be a them.

The thought left butterflies in Emma’s stomach and the back of her throat and that was kind of gross, but she couldn't remember the last time that happened.

“So,” Jefferson started as soon as Killian’s footsteps retreated to the other side of the lobby. “That’s something, huh?”  
  
Emma bit back several angry and sarcastic responses, leaning back against the wall and downing her coffee in four, quick gulps. “Stop it,” she snapped. “How do you know Killian?”

“A long time ago.”  
  
“That’s a date, that’s not an explanation.”   
  
“That’s not why I’m here. I don’t care about your journalist. Although, uh, you might want to reconsider whatever it is you’re doing.”   
  
“I’m not doing anything.”   
  
“Sure.”

Emma dragged her tongue over her teeth, glaring at Jefferson when he stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, shrugging like he’d just given her invaluable advice. “You’re cutting into your three minutes,” she warned. “Tick tock and all that. Why are you here? Really? I didn’t think you and Neal were friends.”  
  
“We’re not,” Jefferson said immediately. This was the Twilight Zone. She’d driven through the Lincoln Tunnel two days before and wound up in some weird, parallel universe where she couldn't stop making out with Killian and was some kind of viral video sensation and Jefferson Helm tried to warn her about things in hotel lobbies.

“Speak English,” Emma snarled and she crushed the bottom of her coffee cup. “A minute and a half now.”  
  
“Neal and I aren’t friends. We haven’t been since...well, everything with you. We drifted apart for awhile and I ended up in New Orleans. That’s how I know your reporter guy. Doesn’t he do dead people?”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“Why is here, Em?”   
  
Emma shook her head and the coffee cup was a lost cause now. “That’s not what’s happening right now. You’re giving me answers, not the other way around.”   
  
“Ah,” Jefferson said and he almost looked surprised. Good. “Alright then, well, I got involved in some stuff in New Orleans, money and, you know, the usual, and it ended with a precinct and headlines and if I gave up a few names then...that’s not important. I’m here to make you a deal.”

“Excuse me?”

That was the last thing she expected. This was definitely the Twilight Zone.

“A deal,” he repeated. “Or, well, more a trade, I guess.”

“You’re talking in riddles.”  
  
Jefferson shook his head, but he was in his element now and Emma was confused and angry and she wanted more coffee. “I’m not, Em, I promise. I’m here because our sponsor wants you on our team.”   
  
She was glad there was a wall behind her and no more coffee in the crumpled-up cup in her hand because she wasn’t sure she would have stayed upright or not covered in cinnamon-flavored beverage otherwise. Emma blinked twice, breathing through her mouth and Jefferson was still smiling.

“What?” she breathed. “Who the fuck is your sponsor? Is it something corporate?”  
  
“Would that make a difference?”   
  
“Obviously not. I have a team, Jeff. My team. I’m not leaving that, certainly not for you guys.”

“What if we could offer you more money?” he asked, leaning forward slightly and there was a wall behind her. There wasn’t anywhere for Emma to go. “More than the base you’re making now with a shipping company that’s only doing this for who knows what reason. We’ve got a whole network behind us, Gold’s made sure of that and he wants you here because he thinks you’re talented and…”  
  
“The token girl,” Emma finished bitterly. Jefferson shrugged. “No,” she continued. “Still not interested. What the fuck is a Gold anyway?”

“He’s a person, not a thing, Em. A very wealthy, very interested person who’s been impressed by what he’s seen out of you already and thinks he can offer you a better opportunity than whatever ragtag group you’ve got now.”  
  
Emma shook her head. “Fuck off Jeff,” she sighed. “I’m not interested.”   
  
“Neal’s going to be disappointed.”   
  
“Yeah, well, Neal can fuck off too. Is that what this is? He was too nervous to talk to me so he sent you to do his grunt work? Almost insulting don’t you think?”   
  
“No, no,” Jefferson objected, eyes flitting back to the other side of the lobby and the team that couldn't’ seem to control its collective volume. “This isn’t Neal’s idea at all. This is coming from the very top. You’re a hot commodity, Em.”   
  
Her whole body recoiled at the idea and the lead in her veins seemed to turn to sludge at the sound of Jefferson’s voice and the look on his face and she felt a little bit lost, like someone had cut her connection to the Earth. She felt like she was floating – some faceless, wealthy _idea_ trying to get her to play video games for him.

“Thoughts?” Jefferson pressed, seemingly undeterred by Emma’s response or how they’d definitely gone over the three-minute marker. “Your team is a fourteen seed. You’ve got to go through Walsh’s squad in the first round and he’s not going to take it easy on you. He was practically foaming at the mouth during the draw yesterday. He’s already convinced he’s going to sweep some metaphorical rug with you. We’re just trying to expand your horizons.”

“My sponsor is fine.”  
  
“Your sponsor is a shipping company one of your teammates had to beg to come on board. They promise anything beyond Philadelphia? Anything about branding or even working on your own streams and bringing in cash that way?”   
  
Emma paused – long enough to be an answer and Jefferson’s smile widened. “How do you know so much about my sponsor?”

“It’s in print. It’s all going to be out there soon." Emma’s heart stuttered, the quiet threat only there if she strained for it, but just enough to give her pause. “This is a chance to make sure you’re on a team that has your best interests at heart.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Emma scoffed. “Tell your sponsor he can take his horizons and stick them somewhere else. I don’t care what metaphor you use.”

Jefferson chuckled, smiling at Emma like she hadn’t just insulted a stranger. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. He’s going to be disappointed.”  
  
“How is that possible? He doesn’t even know me.”   
  
“Maybe that’s why.” Her eyes flashed up and Jefferson’s widened when he realized what he said, backing up quickly like he was waiting for Emma to actually explode in front of him. “And he does kind of know you. Or of you, at least. Trust me on this, Em, this is not a guy you want to double or cross or a combination of those words.”   
  
"What are you trying to warn me against, exactly? We are playing video games, Jefferson. This is not life or death.”   
  
He clicked his tongue, gaze darting back towards her team and lingering for half a moment on Killian. “Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s definitely what we’re doing.”

Emma jumped when she heard footsteps approaching them and a determined looking Elsa a few feet away, eyes narrowed when they landed on Jefferson. She looked, at least, six feet taller than usual. “Everything ok over here?” she asked and Emma nodded.

“Fine,” she promised. “Jefferson was just leaving, right?”  
  
He hummed, the ghost of a smile tugging at the ends of his lips. “Yeah, absolutely. Think about it, Em. Seriously.”   
  
Emma waited ten seconds before sighing loudly, sliding down the wall she was still leaning against and Elsa stared at her like some sad, broken thing. She kind of felt that way. “I have no idea what just happened,” she cautioned. “So there’s no point in asking because I’m incredibly confused.”   
  
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” Elsa said, sinking down next to Emma and stretching one leg out. “I was going to ask if you were ok, but I wasn’t going to say a single word about the weird guy who looks like a stunt double for a Tim Burton movie.”   
  
Emma laughed despite the worries lingering in the back of her mind and Jefferson’s warning against _whatever_ it was she might have been doing with Killian. Dating? On the way to dating? Just making out in secret? That was probably the safest thing.

“Do you think they do a lot of stunts in Tim Burton movies?” Emma asked. Elsa shrugged. “And I’m fine. Really. Did you draw the short straw again? Because this is even more Ruby territory than normal.”  
  
“She did threaten,” Elsa admitted. “But there were no straws involved and I had a feeling cooler heads may need to prevail or something.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Emma took a deep breath and her vision was starting to swim in front of her. “He wanted me to switch teams”.

Elsa’s eyes widened slightly. “What? Why?”  
  
“Beats me,” Emma lied. “I...I know some of the guys on that team. And I guess their sponsor is interested in me.”   
  
“Who’s the sponsor?”   
  
“Some guy named Gold.”

It didn’t seem possible for Elsa’s eyes to widen even more, but it had been that kind of morning and Emma had, somehow, ripped the coffee cup. “Is that important?” Emma asked. “I have no idea who that is.”  
  
“Money,” Elsa said simple. “He’s money in like some kind absolutely ancient way. Like diving into a pile of gold coins kind of money. He’s been in New York nearly as long as my family has. That’s...that’s super weird. I wouldn’t think that he’d be interested in the video game world.”

She shook her head slowly, like she was trying to piece together pieces of a puzzle that absolutely did not fit. “There's more,” Emma added and Elsa made some kind of strangled noise in the back of her throat. “Killian knows Jefferson. The stunt double. Or knew of him, at least. I couldn’t get specifics, but he totally froze when he showed up, said he had connects to the stuff he wrote about in New Orleans.”  
  
“Really?” Emma nodded. Elsa’s face looked slightly pinched, confusion settling into the crease between her eyebrows and Emma knew the feeling. “Wasn’t New Orleans a long time ago?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Weird.”   
  
Emma hummed, not sure what else to say or what she could even try to rationalize at this point and they had to play a one-round tournament for the rest of the afternoon. “I said no,” she muttered. “Just, for the record as it were.”   
  
“Are we going on the record, then?” Elsa asked, a knowing sound to her voice.

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Ah, well, you’ve got some time to figure it out.”  
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“As long as you stick with the right team.”   
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Emma promised, finally taking that deep breath and pushing herself back up the wall. “Let’s go see how many more followers your sister can get before we win this tournament thing.”   
  
Anna got two-hundred and fifty more followers in the next hour and then another hundred and forty-five in the next and by the time they sat down in yet _another_ conference room, sporting matching t-shirts _again_ , Emma’s internet star was on some kind of meteoric rise.

She was only really concerned with the beating the absolute shit out of every other team in the League.

And they did. Badly. Or well. Emma was never sure which adjective was correct when it came to dictating just what kind of beatdown they were imposing.

So, naturally, because the world was a joke that liked to push her even further into this rabbit hole of a weekend, they had to face off against Second Star in the final.

“Fucking hell, it would so figure,” Ruby mumbled, slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulders that was probably supposed to be supportive, but just kind of felt overwhelming. “Whatever, we’ve been on a role and Scarlet said they almost lost their semi, right Scarlet?”  
  
Will looked almost stunned by the question, nearly dropping his phone in his attempt to stand up just a bit straighter. “Absolutely. Their attack sucked. Barely even moved the payload.”   
  
“How do you even know that?” Belle asked before Emma could. This was the weirdest day.

“Hook and I have been watching all day,” he shrugged. “I obviously understand more than he does, but, you know, he’s a close second.”  
  
“It’s a two-person race, Scarlet,” Killian muttered, not taking his eyes away from Emma. She tried not to smile. Or blush. “I’m not sure you’re complimenting me. And I absolutely understand the terminology now.”   
  
Another moderator and League official and someone in a game-branded t-shirt demanded their return to the seats and headsets and Emma could still feel Killian’s eyes on the side of her face. She bit her lip.

Tightly.

“Ready to go, Em?” Neal called from the far table, a smile on his face and her stomach churned at the look. Ruby cursed – loudly. “We already drew attack.”

“Let’s get this over with so we can all get the fuck out of this hotel,” Emma muttered. “Maybe we can steal some champagne from somewhere.”  
  
“Ah, we’ll buy out the store at the end of the block,” Tink said, leaning back against Anna in some kind of balance exercise that they must have practiced at some point. “Preferences? Tequila? Scotch? Ohhh rum?”

“We can do rum,” Will said confidently and Killian rolled his eyes. Neal yelled something else, Jefferson laughing softly behind him and the entire team was, apparently, a bunch of assholes. Emma was going to drink an entire bottle of rum by herself.

“Rum it is then,” Tink said, sounding a bit like she was making some kind of alcohol-based degree. “Let’s go win, team.”

The team moved quickly and Emma nearly tripped over her feet when she felt fingers wrap around her wrist and a thumb brush against the back of her hand and she spun in just enough time to see the slightly _needy_ look in Killian’s eyes before he brushed his lips against hers and her whole body felt like some kind of live wire.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he muttered. She wasn’t breathing.

“Yeah?”

_Banner response. Successfully moved the payload, single-handedly won the game and went on the record._

Killian smiled. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got to go play.”  
  
“I’ve got to write.”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
“Ok.”

Ruby claimed, later on that night, that Emma played that next game _like she was possessed_ and maybe that was true and maybe she was trying to impress Killian and maybe she just really, really wanted to beat the shit out of Neal’s piece of garbage team.

So that’s exactly what they did.

In record time.

Emma heard Will’s shutter snap when she actually jumped out of her chair, _triumph_ practically rolling off her and she really did appreciate the look of stunned surprise on Neal’s face. Jefferson seemed to slink down in his chair. “We’re totally going to beat you,” Emma announced, grinning at the camera and the stream and, God, she waved at the fucking Internet.   
  
Like she was enjoying herself.

She absolutely was.

And the rum – which they eventually got from the liquor store down the street, clearing out a shelf in a celebratory decision that wasn’t really thought out and more expensive than any of them were entirely prepared for until Will slammed down a card and announced _it’s on Mills Media_.

The guy behind the cash register almost laughed.

It wasn’t late by the time they got back to the lobby, but it wasn’t quite early and picking the lock of the far conference room – the one at the other end on the fourth floor that no one would even consider looking at if they kept the door closed – made a lot of sense when they’d already opened one bottle of rum.

“I need a bobby pin,” Emma announced, crouching in front of the lock and squeezing her eye shut like she could see through the thing. She held her hand up expectantly and Anna dropped a thin piece of metal in her palm, another shutter clicking just above Emma’s head. “Anna, if you put that on the internet, I’m not going to let you drink any more of this rum.”  
  
“That’s rude, Em.”   
  
“My team. My Internet stardom. Also I think this might be illegal.”   
  
“It’s definitely not illegal, Swan,” Killian muttered, reaching out to steady her when she wobbled slightly on her heels.

“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I do.”   
  
Will groaned. So did Ruby. “God, Emma, just open the door,” she whined. “This was supposed to be more exciting than just using one of the rooms.” The lock clicked almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth and Emma smirked over her shoulder. “Whatever,” Ruby grumbled, pushing the door open and Killian hadn’t moved his hand yet.

Emma might have leaned back when the rest of her team pushed through the open doors, standing up and letting her eyes fall closed and if this was how the weekend ended then, maybe, she still had some of that control she was desperate for.

“Swan?” Killian asked softly and she hummed in the back of her throat. “You’ve got to walk, love.”  
  
“Right,” she muttered. She didn’t walk. And neither did he. “This is insane, you know that, right?”   
  
“What is?”   
  
“Whatever it is we’re doing. This is nuts.”   
  
“Breaking into a conference room? That’s not insane. Eccentric, at best.”   
  
Emma made a face, but she was absolutely charmed and he was absolutely smiling and that had absolutely been the point and she nearly forgot about everything else. “He wanted me to switch teams,” she said and she wished she’d stop announcing her own news like she was breaking headlines.

Or however those words were supposed to go.

She wasn’t the award-winning journalist in this relationship.

_Whatever_.

Killian’s eyebrows shifted, flying up his forehead and she could almost hear him trying to think. “Who? Helm?” Emma nodded. “Why?”  
  
“Elsa didn’t say anything?”   
  
“No, of course not. What did you say?”   
  
“I told him no, obviously,” Emma said and, in addition of figuring out sentence structure and appropriate clichés, she should probably work on controlling her temper. “This is my team. These are...you’re..I’m not leaving that. Even for some weird, secretive money.”   
  
“The money is secret?”   
  
“God, Ruby was right, you absolutely ask the most frustrating questions.”   
  
“Well, you’re not being exactly forthcoming, Swan.”   
  
Emma sighed and he was right and she wished she’d kept one of the bottles of rum. “Jeff said they have some sponsor guy with a bajillion dollars and Elsa knew he was too. Made Scrooge Mc’Duck comparisons.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You know? Like Ducktales? Jumping in a whole pile of gold coins?” Killian shook his head slowly, but one side of his mouth quirked up and maybe Emma was the charming one now. “Why don’t you know that? That’s basic pop culture.”   
  
“I’ll take your word on that, Swan.” He took a deep breath and it was obvious how much he wanted to ask – the questions like some kind of flashing neon sign hanging above his head. “Were you considering it all all?”

“Considering what?”

“I know it’s your team, love and you said no, but did you consider it?”  
  
Emma took a step back, anger flushing through her quickly and easily and her original buzz had worn off completely. “You’re honestly asking me that? On the record?”   
  
“No. Humor me.”   
  
“Of course not,” Emma seethed. “Not for a second. And certainly not on a team with fucking Neal Cassidy on it.”   
_  
God damn it_.

“You said you knew him,” Killian said and it didn’t sound like the accusation it could have been. “A long time ago?”  
  
Emma nodded. “A lifetime ago. I thought, well, I thought a lot of shit I shouldn’t have and it absolutely blew up in my face and I’ve never wanted to beat anyone more. Virtually. If that’s on the record. I don’t need to be accused of premeditated murder.”   
  
“Off the record, Swan.”   
  
“David hated him. Hates, too, currently. He’d probably go on the record with that if you asked.” Emma tried to smile, but it didn’t really work and Killian kept staring at her, holding back questions he was probably contractually obligated to ask.

“I probably wouldn’t,” Killian admitted, taking a cautious step towards her and Emma didn’t move again. She bit her lip.

“Good to know.”

“This secret money, they have a name?”  
  
“Gold.” The color drained from Killian’s face quickly, eyes gone wide and slightly horrified and his whole chest moved when he started breathing loudly. “That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”   
  
“Yeah, me neither,” Killian muttered distractedly, a hand in his hair and his eyes on his shoes.

“Is that bad?”  
  
“Insane. This is insane.”   
  
“This conversation is very symmetrical.”

He let out a shaky laugh and Emma didn’t think – eventually, when she did think, she was quick to realize she probably would have done the same thing, if only to erase the concern from Killian’s eyes and make sure he made that breathless sound against her lips again.

She kissed him.

“Maybe I wanted to do that all day too,” she mumbled and it was _stupid_ and cheesy and a poor attempt at charming, but she could feel him smile against her and they both probably tasted a bit like rum.

Emma didn’t realize they were moving until they were halfway back down the hallway. Killian’s fingers laced through hers at some point, but he tried to pull them away so he could hit the elevator button and she whined in the back of her throat, earning a smile that made her pulse beat in her ears.

“Come on,” she said, not entirely sure where they were going, but positive the hotel had to have a stairwell and she gasped softly when her back hit the wall as soon as the door clicked back into its frame.

She couldn’t move quickly enough, only one of her feet on the ground when Killian moved his hand under her leg and tried to tug her up to reach him. He groaned when her fingers carded through his hair, hips rocking up as Emma tried to pull him even tighter against him.

Her hands kept moving –  trying to trace across as much of him as she could and there were too many clothes and far too much fluorescent lighting and they were still in goddamn Philadelphia.

They had to drive back to New York the next day.

She breathed in sharply when she felt fingers working under the edge of her shirt and just over the top of her jeans and Killian’s left arm wrapped all the way around her, just a bit desperate to keep her balanced in the middle of the stairwell.

“No, no, no, we’re not..this is insane,” Emma mumbled, out of breath and decidedly unbalanced.

Killian squeezed his eyes closed, moving his hand back against the wall and he might have nodded, but he also looked a bit lost, head falling forward until Emma’s nose was practically in his hair.

“Right,” he mumbled. “No, that’s...okay, no you’re right. I can’t either. I…”

She kissed him. Again. She couldn’t seem to stop doing that.

It was, she reasoned, because he kept talking to her and listening to her and staring at her like he was constantly stunned she responded and, maybe, they really did understand each other and he’d gotten her apology coffee.

He kissed her back, like he couldn’t quite come up with a reason not to either, and it wasn’t nearly as frantic as it had been before, slowed down slightly until it felt like embers in the pit of her stomach and Emma could feel it in her fingertips – which, naturally, had found their way back into Killian’s hair.

That lasted for all of four seconds.

Not that she was counting.

_That would have been insane_.

Killian’s arm tightened around her waist and if she wasn’t so preoccupied by everything else, Emma probably would have been slightly stunned by that particular display of upper-body strength when she found both her feet off the ground.

Her arms moved again – back around his neck and into his hair and then down his neck and she nearly elbowed him in the goddamn head, the breath of his laugh leaving goosebumps against her shoulder.

“You’re going to choke me, love,” Killian mumbled, but he didn’t sound anything except maybe a bit stunned.

“What floor are we on?”  
  
“Currently or…”

“Ten, right? God whose idea was it to take the stairs?”  
  
“Yours.”   
  
“That was a very definitive answer.”   
  
“I’m very good at multitasking and critical thinking.”   
  
“Stop that,” Emma muttered and she nearly _melted_ when he pulled his head back up and crashed his mouth against hers.

She was never sure how they made it up six flights of stairs, a mess of limbs and stumbles and, on more than one occasion, lips against cheeks and necks and, at one point, Emma’s knuckles, her hand tugged up towards Killian and that felt a lot like cheating.

They staggered down the hallway, not quite willing to be more than a few inches apart and _this was happening_ and Emma’s head was spinning and she couldn't come up with a reason not to just _want_ in some kind of huge, life-changing short of way.

It took three tries to get the door open and Killian’s hand landed on her back as soon as the lock clicked, thumb tracing against the bottom of her spine and she could hear him breathing behind her.

“Emma,” Killian said and she spun on the spot, eyes wide and _want_ sinking into every inch of her as soon as she looked at him. “Swan, are you….”

“Are you?” Emma challenged, taking a step forward and hooking her thumb through one of his belt loops.

“Trick question.”  
  
She laughed and that was absolutely the first time _that_ had happened during _this_ and he’d gotten under her skin and into the middle of everything far quicker than she expected. Part of Emma wanted to run, to jump back and cower just a little, but the rest of her _wanted_ and that part pressed up on her toes and kissed him before they could debate the pros and cons of what they were about to do.

Killian backed her up, both hands falling onto her hips when Emma’s legs hit the side of the bed. They couldn’t seem to pick a speed – mouths moving quicker than hands until their hands seemed to get the message and started tugging on belts and shirts and she couldn’t get out of her shoes fast enough.

Her shirt fell into a pile near Killian’s jeans and Emma tried to keep her gaze even and her stare confident, but she hadn’t done this in a while and certainly not with _journalism ethics_ involved, but he didn’t let her drop her head down to her suddenly bare feet, tucking his thumb under her chin and bringing her back up.

“Hey,” he said, smiling softly and staring at her with that same look of barely contained wonder.

“Hey.”

“Maybe it’s a little insane.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe.”   
  
“And maybe I can’t get you out of my head.”

Emma felt her eyes widen slightly, mouth going dry at the honesty in his voice and the look in his eyes and maybe this wouldn’t blow up in her face. God, she hoped this wouldn’t blow up in her face.

She nodded slowly, not sure what she was agreeing to, but certain it was important and they knocked the pillows off the bed when they fell backwards, Killian’s wallet tossed on the nightstand a few feet away when he tugged the foil packet out and managed to drop six bills on the ground as well.

Emma couldn’t stop laughing.

“I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that or not, Swan,” Killian muttered and she stopped laughing as soon as kissed down her neck, nipping at her shoulder blade.

“Stop talking,” Emma shot back, tugging on his hair until his lips found hers again and she swore his eyes got brighter when his hand moved, trailing down her thigh until she wasn’t talking or laughing or doing anything except feeling.

She didn’t stay –  _couldn’t_ stay, Scarlet’s return inevitable and there would be questions from every single team member about their mutual and sudden disappearance – but she kissed him slowly before she walked away, lingering in his space and it felt like something had shifted.

They left Philadelphia the next morning and Ruby asked Emma _what is going on with you_ at least seventy-two times, but she just smiled and dropped into the driver’s seat of their rental car and Killian’s fingers brushed over her knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, some stuff happened. I hope you guys enjoyed the stuff that happened. Presumably, more stuff will happen soon. JK. I know lots of stuff is going to happen. It's not just about video games. 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's the nicest. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

“Ariel, there is a perfectly good couch right there. You don’t need to be laying on the ground.”  
  
Killian leaned over the front of his desk, peering down at the woman who, despite the several times he pointed out the couch and some sense of professional decorum, was still laying on her stomach on his office floor.

Ariel didn’t seem to hear him.

Or she was just ignoring him.

She was definitely ignoring him.

“Ariel,” Killian repeated and she hummed distractedly while her fingers flew across the keys of her laptop. “Are you even listening to me?”  
  
“No,” she said easily. She clicked her tongue and clicked a few more keys and several different windows popped up on the screen in front of her. Ariel, however, didn’t seem to appreciate that, growling loudly and slamming down the top of her laptop.

Killian’s eyes widened and this wasn’t what he expected when he asked for her help. He probably shouldn’t have done that either, but nearly two weeks after Philadelphia, and _everything_ that had happened in Philadelphia, he was nothing short of determined to get some goddamn answers.

When he was a kid, Liam used to mutter things about curiosity and cats under his breath whenever Killian started asking questions about everything and anything, looking for explanations and reasons for why the world was such an absolute shit place.

And looking back, Liam had brushed him off – not because he didn’t have the answers, but because Killian had been twelve and probably shouldn’t have been under the impression that the world was anything except idealistic and chock full of promise and opportunities.

It didn’t really work out that way.

And now, two weeks after he told Emma Swan he _couldn’t get her out of his head_ , Killian found himself with a receptionist on his office floor hacking into some kind of criminal database that might have actually just been the New Orleans Police Department website.

He didn’t really know what was going on.

Ariel kept ignoring him.

“You going to tell me what you found now?” Killian asked, after a few more moments of frustrating silence. Ariel had shifted onto her back at some point, arms crossed over her chest and eyes closed and if she hadn’t just staged an attack on her laptop he probably would have assumed she’d fallen asleep.

Her lips twitched.

“A, I’m serious,” Killian groaned, swinging his legs onto his desk and nearly knocking over his own laptop in the process. “This is important.”  
  
Ariel didn’t open her eyes when she spoke again. “Why?”

“That’s a need to know basis.”

“Bullshit.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Killian sat up straighter, the muscles in the back of his thighs protesting at the movement and he wasn’t nearly in shape or flexible enough for any of this. He wished Ariel would get off the goddamn ground.

“You heard me the first time,” Ariel muttered. “Why is this important? Also are we certain this isn’t totally illegal? Because I’m fairly certain it’s totally illegal.”  
  
“Then why did you agree to it?” Killian asked, frustration working into his voice. “And did you link those pictures? Will has no idea had to do it.”   
  
Ariel rolled her head to the side, leveling Killian with a look that spoke much more than any curse word or laptop attack. He grinned at her.

At some point in the last two weeks – in between Philadelphia and Gold trying to get Emma onto a different team and Jefferson Helm being friends with, maybe, Emma’s ex-boyfriend and kissing Emma all the _goddamn_ time – Killian and Ariel had become some sort of journalist team.

She barely spent any time at the desk in the lobby, hadn’t answered a phone since he walked into the building the day after they got back from Philadelphia and announced he _needed help, now_ and he should tell Regina to buy her new business cards because she absolutely wasn’t a receptionist anymore.

She should probably get some kind of byline on all of his stories from here on out.

They stared at each other for another moment – some kind of standoff and maybe this was _definitely_ illegal, but Killian couldn’t shake the feeling that this was absolutely _insane_ and something was wrong.

There was no way this could be happening.

And he couldn’t stop asking questions.

“Obviously,” Ariel sighed, tugging one leg up and crossing the other until she looked more like a pretzel than some sort of investigative reporter.

Or she would if Killian managed to get Regina to buy new business cards.

“That can’t possibly be comfortable,” Killian muttered. His phone _dinged_ on the other side of his desk, but he ignored it, certain it was Scarlet asking about the photos. He had no idea how to do anything on the site – a fact Killian had been quick to mock, only to roll his eyes when Ariel pointed out that he had no idea how to do anything on the site either.

Ariel made a contradictory noise and shut her eyes again. “This is good for my back. Refocuses my zen or something.”  
  
“Do you need to refocus your zen?”   
  
“Why do you ask so many questions?”   
  
“Occupational hazard.”

She laughed softly, teeth digging into her lower lip, and Killian knew, without asking, that she’d found several answers in this not-quite-legal activity they were engaged in. “Jefferson Helm did six months in New Orleans nearly six years ago,” Ariel started and Killian almost fell out of his chair, grabbing a pen and his phone, nearly cracking the screen in half hitting the record button.

“God, A,” he sighed. “You can’t just throw information on me like that. And we knew that. I wrote that part.”  
  
“Yeah, but then...whatever, you weren’t in New Orleans and you didn’t write about how Jefferson Helm was originally sentenced to a year, but got out early on what is officially being documented as good behavior.”   
  
“And unofficially?”   
  
“Unofficially,” Ariel repeated. “A private, sleaze-bag lawyer named Hans Norge showed up, worked another deal with the DA and got our guy Helm out quicker than he should have, despite the names he gave up. This is when it gets interesting though. Helm wanders around for a couple of years, seems to keep his nose clean and then where do you think he ends up?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea.”   
  
“Working for one Wesselton shipping.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Ariel sat up, nodding slowly with her tongue pressed against her cheek. “Yup,” she said, popping her lips on the word. “Nothing major, still pretty low-level, but he was there for a couple years before he got back into the video game thing.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait, back into the video game thing?”   
  
“Did you not know that part?”   
  
“I wouldn’t be asking questions if I did, A,” Killian snapped, and she didn’t even blink. Two weeks and the not-quite-receptionist was seemingly undeterred by anything he could say to her. “You can throw a couch cushion at me, if that’ll make you feel better.”   
  
“Nah, that’d just mean I’d have to actually move to the couch.”   
  
“God forbid.”

Ariel smiled, some of the tension in the office evaporating, but the look morphed into something almost disappointed when she opened her mouth again. “Helm played with a guy named Neal Cassidy more than a decade ago. And you’re not going to like who else was on the team.”  
  
Killian’s stomach dropped, heart beating out far quicker than could have possibly been healthy. “Emma?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Ariel nodded.

He’d had his suspicions, but he hadn’t actually asked, hadn’t wanted to do anything that would have ruined the decidedly good _thing_ he and Emma seemed to have fallen into in the last two weeks. He was still sleeping on Will’s couch and she was still sleeping on the air mattress in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment, but they’d managed to steal a few moments every time they saw each other and, maybe, they were good at secret.

Killian tried to ignore whatever it was that his heart did whenever he thought that particular word, but it had to be like that and she didn’t stay the night in Philadelphia because she couldn’t and there were rules, but he really couldn’t get her out of his head and he wanted to spend most of his free time kissing her.

So he did.

And so did she.

They’d figure the rest out. The secret thing wasn’t permanent. It was just a product of their current situation.

One of them would get a real apartment eventually and then maybe Emma could stay – or just take up residence in the very center of his life. That seemed like a lot to just say out loud at this point though.

Even if Killian thought about it a questionable amount. Non-stop as soon as she walked away from him. Semantics.

“You sound like you already knew that,” Ariel pointed out, and Killian nearly fell out of his chair again.

He shook his head. “Just an idea.”  
  
“There’s something else.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
Ariel tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace and Killian braced himself for some sort of journalistic worse case scenario. “Your Gold guy? The one with piles of gold coins to jump into? He’s insanely rich and insanely powerful here in New York. He’s got a hand in everything, sponsorships on museums and non-profits and a ridiculous amount of investments that I’m fairly certain I’ve only started to scratch the surface of. It’s all things that are supposed to look nice, but only serve as flashing neon signs of bad deeds when you actually stop and look at them.”   
  
“What kind of bad deeds are we talking here?” Killian asked.

“Well, one of them does, in fact, involve you.”  
  
Killian blinked, slumping in his chair and if that was what it felt when both of your lungs collapsed, it wasn’t particularly enjoyable. “Me,” he rasped, and Ariel nodded slowly.   
  
“Milah Ormagia’s husband. Or, you know, former husband, I guess. I found a marriage certificate in public records a couple of days ago and I seriously debated rehashing that fact until I noticed something else.”   
  
“I've known that for years. Shit, how can there possibly be anything else?”

The room was spinning or maybe he was spinning or maybe every single decision Killian had ever made was intent on coming back and haunting him.

He shouldn’t have come back to New York.

He was glad he came back to New York.

“Care to make a guess as to who Gold’s personal attorney is?” Ariel asked, spinning towards Killian’s desk and crossing her legs in front of her.

The room wasn’t just spinning. It was flipping and twisting and Killian couldn’t see straight. Or breathe. He was fairly convinced it was because his lungs had collapsed.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, and Ariel hummed in agreement. “Ok, ok, go back ten thousand steps. So Gold got Jefferson Helm out of jail? That doesn’t make any sense. Was he ever in New Orleans?”  
  
Ariel shook her head. “Not that I can tell. He’s got way too much stuff going on in New York. That’s what you said Elsa told Emma right? He’s Scrooge McDuck of the Upper East Side.”

Killian took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts and his mind and ignore whatever it was his phone was doing – dinging out some kind of incessant rhythm that sounded like eighteen text messages, several voicemails and maybe a few phone calls.

He ran his hand over his face and tugged tightly on his hair. Ariel still looked a little nervous. “Alright,” he said, not sure why he was talking when he couldn't seem to pinpoint a single thought. “So Helm gets out of jail and bounces around and ends up at a shipping company that knows Elsa’s parents, sends out fancy antiques all around the world and suddenly wants to sponsor a video game team?”  
  
“You’re just stating facts now,” Ariel muttered.

Killian rolled his eyes. “That’s because I have no idea how any of this connects.”  
  
“Maybe it doesn’t.”   
  
“If it doesn’t then….I don’t even know. It’s got to connect, A. There are way too many coincidences here for it to be anything except absolutely connected.”   
  
“Ok,” she said, sounding a bit like she was giving into the ravings of a madman. Killian kind of felt that way. “So, oh great journalist, what happens next to connect all these dots?”

“Beats me,” he admitted, and Ariel actually laughed. “Milah said her husband was powerful, but that was part of the problem. The power was...oppressive. So she left and wound up in New Orleans, but I never had any idea she was from New York until later.”  
  
He mumbled the last few word, ducking his eyes back towards his arm and maybe his heart had collapsed too and he was certain he’d walked away from all of this.

“It can't all start here,” Killian mumbled, half to himself, like he was desperately trying to convince himself that it was true.

“You don’t know that it does,” Ariel said softly. He scoffed, but she didn’t seem surprised by the sound, standing up and resting both her palms on the edge of his desk. “The only thing we do know is that Gold has lots of money, is interested in video games and has a lawyer with a weird name.”  
  
“Who got a low-level drug worker out of jail after a story I wrote.”   
  
“And that doesn’t mean much of anything. Maybe Jefferson Helm is Gold’s long lost kid or his favorite nephew or something. Maybe Gold had no idea what Jefferson Helm was in jail for.”   
  
“You honestly believe that?”   
  
Ariel made a face, twisting her lips slightly and her hair moved when she shrugged. “That makes about as much sense as anything else. Did Emma say anything else about Helm and this Neal guy?”   
  
“No,” Killian shook his head. “Are we sure that guys name is Cassidy? I don’t think it is.”   
  
“God, you’ve got to stop adding more dots to connect. This is making me go cross-eyed.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
“I haven’t been able to find anything about Neal Cassidy, aside from that bit about playing video games. He’s got one name there and that’s the only name I can see. He doesn’t even have a record.”   
  
That was the last thing Killian expected to hear. In whatever grand, crime-ridden story he’d half come up with in his head, he was fairly positive Neal whatever-his-name-was played a fairly crucial role in all of it. And he couldn’t bring himself to ask Emma.

He was an absolute shit journalist.

“None of this makes any sense,” Killian growled, glaring at his phone like it had personally offended him when it made another noise. “Does Gold have a history of video game sponsorship?”  
  
“That’s a sentence I’d never really thought I’d hear,” Ariel laughed. Killian tried not to actually growl again. “And, no, to answer your question. But then neither does Wesselton and it’s a new League, so maybe this is all about new choices and fresh chances or something.”   
  
“I think you’ve got those words mixed up.”   
  
“Ah, well, you’re the word expert. I just know how to use the Internet.”   
  
“It’s a helpful talent.”   
  
“Was that actually a thank you?” Ariel asked, dropping back onto the ground and the floor really couldn’t have been comfortable. “Here I thought you were just going to yell at inanimate objects some more.”   
  
Killian scoffed, but it was almost close to a laugh and he couldn’t make sense of any of this insanity. He pushed up, dropping down next to Ariel without a word and maybe the floor wasn’t that bad. It might actually do wonders for his back.

“Thank you,” he muttered, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Her lips quirked slightly. “I just...this story needs to work.”  
  
“The story, huh?”   
  
“That sounded almost knowing, A.”   
  
She couldn’t actually shrug on her back, but she made an attempt and Killian almost appreciated that. “You haven’t asked her for more specifics about Neal.”   
  
“No,” Killian mumbled. “I haven’t.”   
  
“Interesting.”   
  
“Subtley’s not exactly your strong suit is it?”   
  
“Yeah, well, it’s not yours either. You need to tone down the longing looks when she texts you. It’s almost blatantly obvious.”   
  
Killian’s lungs seemed to inflate suddenly and there appeared to be a sudden surplus of oxygen in the room, until he was positive his whole chest would explode with the force of it. Or maybe that was just how much he wanted when it came to Emma.

Ariel smiled at him – far too confident and certain for either one of them “Is that why you’re doing this? For Emma? She already said she wasn’t switching teams. What are you worried about?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Killian muttered, and it was an absolute lie because he was worried about everything and he couldn’t let his past come back to haunt him. Again.

He wanted to stay in New York.   
  
He wanted to write.

He wanted far more than he deserved.

“What the hell are you two doing on the floor?”

Killian didn’t even bother to move, just made some kind of impatient noise and waved his hand through the air, hoping he was, at least directing the movement towards the door where Robin was standing and, presumably, glaring at him.

“Hook, seriously, do you even know how to work a phone?” Robin continued, stepping into the office and nearly destroying Ariel’s laptop.

“Hey,” she shouted, tugging the thing away quickly. “Watch it Godzilla.”  
  
Robin laughed. “Rude. An answer, Hook.”   
  
“I was very clearly ignoring you,” Killian muttered. “Pick up on the context clues, Locksley.”   
  
“Yeah and I was very clearly ignoring you ignoring.”   
  
“Jeez, you two are stupid,” Ariel mumbled, draping an arm over her eyes and rolling her shoulders on the carpet. “Sit down, Robin. You’re making me nervous up there.”   
  
“On the floor,” Robin said slowly, and Ariel just made some kind of noise that might have been an agreement or possibly a command. He huffed slightly when he bent his knees, but he dropped down next to Ariel anyway and they must have painted an absolutely ridiculous picture.

“Did you shut the door?” Killian asked, only slightly concerned with the professionalism of all of this. And because he didn’t want anyone to know what it was he and Ariel were doing.

“No.”  
  
“Ass.”   
  
“Answer your phone.”   
  
“Children,” Ariel interrupted, but Killian could practically feel the force of Robin’s glare through her and he knew there was no escaping whatever lecture he had coming.

“Alright, Locksley, go ahead,” Killian said. Ariel and Robin both scoffed. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Robin groaned, kicking at something that might have been the side of the couch. “Oh, you’re good with me talking now? Insubordinate. That’s what you are. And I’m here because your Philly story hit three hundred and so you can cross that off whatever list of concerns I know you’re not actually making because you’re you.”   
  
“Excuse me? What list of concerns?”   
  
“The one that’s got you two locked up in here in your clandestine meetings.” Killian opened his mouth to argue _clandestine_ , but Robin pulled his head off the ground and he was absolutely glaring at him and Killian felt like he was a kid again. “And because you made some kind of twisted deal with Cora, so you’ve got to be worried about that. Is that what the meetings are about? I’ve been curious for two weeks.”   
  
Killian choked – on that surplus of oxygen – and even Ariel made some kind of strangled sound. “So is this you finally admitting that you’ve known about the Cora thing since you embed the video?” Killian asked, sitting up quickly.

“You shouldn’t tell Scarlet anything,” Robin said. “That mouth. And he was angry and worried. Mostly worried. Although his string of insults was almost impressive.”  
  
“God damnit.”   
  
“That didn’t answer my question about these meetings. A, are you even a receptionist anymore?”   
  
“Eh,” Ariel said. “Technically, I guess. But Aurora was supposed to start interviewing other people or telling HR to interview other people. That’s what Will told me.”   
  
“This office is insane,” Killian groaned. “I’m going to kill Scarlet.”

“To be fair, I was the one who told him about the Cora thing. But that was because you weren’t answering your phone then either.”  
  
Robin made some kind of triumphant noise, grinning like he’d just won the debate Killian didn’t realize they were having. “Answers, Hook. What are these meetings? And A, if you’re not technically a receptionist anymore, what are we even paying you? Are we paying?”   
  
“You’re definitely paying me,” Ariel promised.   
  
“Oh, ok, good. I don’t want to get sued.”   
  
“Yeah, you won’t. Not for that, at least.”   
  
Killian sighed, dropping back onto the ground and his head bounced slightly when it crashed against the carpet. Robin’s eyebrows were probably in his hair. “C’mon, A, for real,” Killian groaned, and she mumbled _sorry_ under her breath.

“What is she talking about, Hook?” Robin asked and Killian winced at the tone of his voice.

“Stand down, Dad. It’s fine. No one is getting sued.”  
  
“That’s not even remotely what I’m actually worried about.”

“No?”  
  
“Ass,” Robin said, laughing when Ariel flicked her finger against Killian’s arm. “A, honestly, are we just waiting for the lawsuits?”   
  
“No, no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly to sound totally convincing. Killian tried to melt into the floor. “Everything we’re doing or have done has been pretty much by the book. If Killian can connect some dots then we’ll be fine.”   
  
“I’m sorry, pretty much by the book? Is there a way to do this that isn’t by the book?”   
  
“You’re worrying way too much.”   
  
“Killian,” Robin hissed, standing up and kicking at Killian’s sneaker. “Does this have to do with the hits thing?”   
  
“No,” Killian said. “Not at all. If it does, my head is actually going to explode, so it better not.”   
  
“You’re not making any sense.”   
  
Killian sighed, closing his eyes lightly as he tried to keep his breathing level. “One of the teams in this League, the top-seeded team in this League, is being sponsored by Robert Gold.”

He didn’t actually sit up – but Killian could hear Robin’s quick intake of breath and could imagine, with almost startling clarity, the way he blinked several times, opened his mouth twice and stumbled back onto the couch.

“Holy shit,” Robin mumbled.

“Exactly.”  
  
“How do you know that? Have you known this the whole time?”   
  
“No,” Killian said, refusing to give thought to that corner of his mind that wondered what he would have done if he _had_ know about Gold the whole time. “Not until Philadelphia when a guy I wrote about in New Orleans told Emma that Gold wanted her on his team.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Locksley, if you don’t stop shouting out one-word questions, this explanation isn’t going to go anywhere. And, no, I haven’t seen Gold and Emma isn’t switching teams or anything like that. So don’t bother asking those questions either.”   
  
“How did you know I was going to ask those questions?” Robin challenged.

“You’ve got an interview system. I’m well-acquainted with it when you’re questioning every decision I’ve ever made.”  
  
Robin made a face – unimpressed and unamused and Killian grinned in response. He was still laying on the floor. “For the record, that wasn’t what I was going to ask. I was going to ask what the name of the team was.”   
  
“Second star,” Ariel answered before Killian could and Robin nearly knocked the couch through the wall when he jumped up. “What?”   
  
“Are you guys kidding me?” he yelled, kicking Killian’s sneaker again.

“God, that hurt,” Killian said. “What? You look like you’ve just won a Pulitzer.”  
  
“You really didn’t figure it out? Shit, you must be really worried. Or distracted.”   
  
“Less accusations, more talking.”   
  
“Second star?” Robin asked, like that combination of words should have explained everything. “Oh my God, Hook. Second star to the right and straight on until morning. It’s how you get to Neverland!”   
  
Killian wished the oxygen in his office would stop shifting so drastically and without warning. It couldn’t have been good for any of his internal organs. He tried to sink into the floor again and gritted his teeth when it didn’t work, refusing to meet Robin’s expectant gaze.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s...no.”  
  
“What am I missing?” Ariel asked, head darting between Robin and Killian like she couldn’t decide who would answer quicker. “Guys, patience is not my strong suit either.”   
  
“That can’t be right,” Killian muttered, and it wasn’t the answer Ariel wanted.

Robin shrugged. “That’s not the first thing you thought of? That’s the first thing I thought of.”  
  
“I was kind of distracted by Gold wanting Emma on his video game team, if we’re being honest.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.”   
  
“I’m going to strangle both of you if one of you doesn’t immediately tell me what’s going on,” Ariel shouted, waving her hands through the air to prove her point.

Killian took a deep breath, pulling his arm back over his eyes. “The name of the drug ring in New Orleans, the one that I wrote about and the one that Helm worked for and went to jail for, was known as the Lost Boys. Like…”  
  
“Peter Pan,” Ariel finished. “Neverland. Oh, shit. Shit.”   
  
“Exactly.”

She dropped back down to the floor, resting a hand on Killian’s forearm and it was probably supposed to be comforting, but he couldn't seem to take a deep breath and he wasn’t really sure what his pulse was doing when it felt like the weight of the world was actually sitting on his chest.

“Gold doesn’t have a record though,” Ariel added. Killian wished she would stop talking. He wished Robin would get out of his office. He wished Emma would call him and maybe they could go...somewhere. Anywhere. The other side of the goddamn globe.

“That’s the first thing I looked up,” she continued. “All his stuff in New York is on the up. He wins awards and gets mentions from the governor because he’s a big-time donor.”

“I’m not saying it makes any sense,” Robin admitted, the couch creaking under his weight. “I’m just saying that’s the first thing I thought of. It could just be one huge coincidence.”  
  
“So what happens now?”

Robin clicked his tongue and Killian knew he was looking at him. “Stop it, Locksley,” he muttered, but Robin didn’t pull his gaze away and Ariel squeezed her hand.

“You don’t have time for an investigation, Hook,” Robin said, sounding a bit like he was telling Henry he couldn’t play video games before he finished his homework. “That’s not why you’re here and definitely not something that was part of whatever you agreed to with Cora.”  
  
“Whatever I agreed to with Cora is absolutely none of your business.”   
  
“Like hell it is. You think I don’t know what Gina agreed to get you here? And what you probably agreed to to make sure she didn’t have to do just that? Don’t insult my intelligence.”   
  
“I’m not,” Killian sighed. “I have no idea what you just said.”   
  
“Stop trying to make a story out of nothing, Hook. It probably is just one big coincidence. There’s a lot of money in these games, right? We wrote that. A three million dollar prize, not to mention branding and streaming and creating some kind of team following. Gold’s probably just trying to expand his investment horizons.”   
  
Killian didn’t say anything – couldn’t come up with an argument that didn’t sound like he was also trying to prove the existence of aliens or the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa.

It all sounded crazy.

And coincidence didn’t make much sense either.

He needed to start asking more questions.

The world seemed to determined to make him prove it.

“Killian?”

He jerked his head up – forgetting entirely about the arm he still had draped across his face and grimaced when his elbow crashed against the floor. Emma smiled at him, leaning against the open doorframe as her eyes traced across the scene in his office.

“Why are you laying on the floor?” Emma asked. “Hey, Ariel.”  
  
“Hey, Emma,” Ariel grinned, dropping back on the ground in a move that was far more graceful than anything Killian had managed to accomplish that afternoon.

“That’s what I’m saying, floor can't be comfortable,” Robin said, and Emma leaned around to glance at him on the couch. “Hey, Emma. Henry wants another shirt. This one is...it’s not holding up to the demand by the wearer.”  
  
Emma laughed, a piece of hair falling across her forehead. “I’ll see what I can do. We were going to order some new ones soon, so we have stuff before the first round. Apparently Ruby and Anna have some kind of plan and Instagram is involved and we’re going to be diving in our own piles of metaphorical money soon.”

The entire office froze, Robin’s eyes going wide when they darted towards Killian and he tried not to throw both his arms back over his face. “Did I miss something?” Emma asked. “I thought that was actually kind of funny.”  
  
“Nah, it totally was. Good references and jokes and all that,” Robin promised, hardly convincing anyone. “Let’s go, A. Maybe you can tell Aurora what questions to ask when the new candidates come in to interview.”   
  
“Don’t we have an HR department for that?” Ariel asked. Robin groaned. Killian might have sighed. It sounded vaguely pitiful. “Oh, oh,” she muttered, some kind of metaphorical lightbulb going off over her head. “Yeah, ok. See you later, Killian. Bye, Emma.”   
  
“Bye,” Emma muttered, barely stepping out of the way when Ariel and Robin practically sprinted back into the newsroom. She sank onto the corner of the couch, eyes never leaving Killian and he wished the world would stop playing practical jokes on him. It was frustrating. “I feel like I’ve missed several different news bulletins and e-mail blasts.”   
  
Killian laughed softly, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He needed to get off the goddamn floor. “Have you not taken your e-mail off that, love? You really should.”   
  
“I never put it on in the first place. That was all M’s and I think she actually likes getting them. Claims she’s a more informed citizen now.”   
  
“Ah.”   
  
“You going to tell me what’s going on now? Ariel’s not the receptionist anymore?”   
  
“No,” Killian chuckled, finally sitting up and resting his back on the front of his desk. “She’s, well, I’m not sure what her full title is, but she’s helping me.”   
  
“Helping you. How?”   
  
Fuck. He’d promised her honesty. And follow-ups. And he had no idea what the actual truth was. “I just had some work to do and A’s better at the internet than I am.”   
  
“That’s a very old fashioned sentence,” Emma muttered. “Shouldn’t you be better at the internet? The digital age of journalism or something.”   
  
“I did get fired from my last print job, Swan.”   
  
“Because of your shit internet skills?”   
  
“No,” Killian said, pulling himself up and Emma eyed him appraisingly when he took a step towards her. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, love, but what are you doing here?”   
  
She smiled slowly, sitting up a bit straighter when his legs pressed against hers. “Was that against the rules? We never really discussed the rules.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware there were any.”   
  
“A ton probably,” Emma muttered, and the smile faltered for half a second. “How’d the Philadelphia story do? We hit five hundred yet?”   
  
Killian shook his head. “Three, Locksley just told me, but A put up the photos from the last practice so maybe we’ll get another push from that. Are you keeping track of hit totals, Swan?”   
  
“Aren’t you?”   
  
“That’s my job.”   
  
“And here I thought your job was just to ask infuriating questions.”

“I’m a man of many different talents, Swan,” Killian said and he couldn't take another step forward when there was a couch in the way, but the door was closed and the only windows in his office looked out on the street and he couldn’t think when Emma looked at him like that.

Or looked at him in general.  

“Impressive,” she mumbled, tugging lightly on one of his belt loops and he tried not to actually fall on top of her, pushing on her shoulder instead until her back was on the couch. “You know this was not part of my plan.”  
  
“You weren’t trying to get me to kiss you in my office?”   
  
Emma shook her head, hair splayed out underneath her and over the arm of the couch. Killian shifted, keeping his feet on the ground while he tried to rest his weight on his forearms and it wasn’t really comfortable and there wasn’t really room for him and Emma on the couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“I’m not actually kissing you, you know,” Emma pointed out, reaching up to tug on the front of his t-shirt.

“Maybe I was just trying to kiss you in my office.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re the one with a plan.”   
  
“An opportunity.”   
  
“Idiot,” she muttered, but that was as many insults as she managed before he was actually kissing her in his office and Killian was more than content with this particular reason for a lack of oxygen.

It was dangerous and probably against those rules they’d both been dancing around for the last two months, but he couldn't seem to come up with a reason to stop kissing her when Emma’s fingers tightened on his shirt and found their way back into his hair. Killian moved, trying to pull his knee up and he managed to hit it against the couch in the process, but Emma’s lips didn’t leave his and her fingers were practically anchored in his hair and he groaned when her hips rolled against his.

“Wait, what about Ariel?” Emma mumbled, not moving away from his mouth.

Killian groaned again, right hand finding its way under the edge of her shirt and he grinned when Emma shivered against him. “What?”

“She’s not just going to run in here, right?”  
  
“Interviews,” Killian said, dropping his head back down to kiss along Emma’s jaw. “This isn’t the kissing I was promised, Swan.”   
  
“This was your plan. What about Robin? He’s not going to come barreling back in here right?”   
  
“Also interviews. And probably his job. And a distinct lack of interest in anything we’re about to be doing.”   
  
Emma laughed, the force of her smile settling in the very center of Killian and, for half a moment, he forgot about Gold and coincidences and anything that wasn’t _her_ in some kind of overwhelming, absolute kind of way that nearly had him screaming emotions and promises in her face.

He kissed her instead of doing that.

Emma moved again, hands finding their way to his back and a different set of belt loops and he nearly crashed against her when she tried to pull him back towards her.

Killian wasn’t sure when his hand had worked completely under her back, grazing against her spine until she arched at his touch and he should probably stop _making so much goddamn noise_ , but he could feel Emma’s tongue against his lip and he wasn’t entirely in control of anything anymore.

There couldn't have been much oxygen in the office by the time they broke apart, both of them a bit desperate for it, and Killian wished he could trace the flush on Emma’s cheeks, but his hand was pinned underneath her and…

“Hey,” Emma whispered, thumb brushing across his chin. “You looked far away, what’s the matter?”  
  
Killian shook his head, dragging his fingers up her spine and they were going to find themselves back at square one of making out on the couch like teenagers if she kept moving underneath him like that. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’m fine, love.”   
  
“Don’t...you don’t have to do that, you know. You can talk to me. About stuff. Anything. Whatever you’re very obviously thinking.”

“I know, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Because, well, I’d maybe like that,” Emma continued, rushing over the words while she tried to avoid his gaze. “The talking and the discussing and all that. I mean the kissing is...we’re good at that, but I wouldn't mind…”   
  
“Talking,” Killian finished. Emma nodded, biting down on her lip. He hoped she couldn't hear the absurd way his heart picked up at that. “I’d like that too.”   
  
“That’s kind of why I’m here, actually.”   
  
Killian felt his eyebrows shift and knew he was smiling like an idiot. He kissed her cheek quickly, appreciating the quiet hitch of her breath when he did. “Yeah? It wasn’t all about the kissing?”

“A perk. No, I’m here because we’re doing a thing. A team thing. Well, a team thing plus some. At Granny’s for Halloween. In other words we’re commandeering a corner of Granny’s on Saturday while she serves Midtown a questionable amount of pumpkin flavored alcohol.”  
  
Killian eyed her speculatively, heart rate slowing down to something a bit more human and a hell of a lot more disappointed. “I can do that, Swan,” he said. “What time? I’ll tell Scarlet too.”   
  
“Wait, I’m confused. I mean, yeah, tell Scarlet, but I think Anna did that already.”   
  
“Anna?”   
  
“I have no explanation for that, I’m just fairly positive it happened. What’s the matter? It’s going to be fun. M’s and David are going to be there and you don’t have to drink pumpkin alcohol. We could probably even get Granny to let us use the fancy rum.”   
  
“I don’t normally drink when I’m writing, Swan.”

“What?” Emma snapped. “Wait, do you think I’m trying to give you an assignment? Oh my God, you know my previous idiot was a term of endearment, but now I’m serious about it. That’s not what’s happening here. I’m telling you to come uptown for Halloween because we’re doing a team thing and you’re…”  
  
“I’m what, Swan?” Killian asked, lifting his eyebrows and trying to swallow back every bit of emotion he could feel.

“Part of that,” she sighed. “Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, rapping her knuckles against his chest and it was a miracle that he stayed balanced when he moved his hands, wrapping his fingers around hers and resting his prosthetic against her side. He kissed her knuckles and her smile probably could have paid the rent on Granny’s restaurant for several major holidays.

He was a sentimental, emotional fool.

And he absolutely loved her.

A lot. More than he expected. Quicker than he realized was even possible.

But he hadn’t been lying in Philadelphia and, at some point, Emma had found her way into the middle of everything, taking up residence in every thought and every decision and maybe that was why he’d turned Ariel into some kind of hacking monster.

He wanted answers to make sure that nothing happened to her.

“You’re doing that thing with your face again,” Emma muttered. “A million and two thoughts.”

“I promise, it’s not nearly that many,” Killian argued. “A million and one, at most.”

Emma scoffed, but the smile was still on her face and she hadn’t tried to pull her hand away from him or his left arm and she never had and he should probably try and cut the thoughts down to, like, six-hundred thousand.

“So, ideas? On Saturday? And Halloween? You should consider a costume because either Ruby or Mary Margaret or a combined force of both will yell if you show up like a citizen.”  
  
“Noted,” Killian grinned and his leg was starting to cramp. “You really want me to bring Scarlet?”   
  
“You can bring whoever you want. Bring the entire Mills-Locksley family if you want.”   
  
“Henry will be thrilled.”   
  
“There will be games in our corner of the restaurant, so….”   
  
Killian shook his head slowly, everything he’d ever thought about coming back to New York flying out the window – maybe the one on the other side of his office – as soon as he realized Emma wanted him there and wanted to know what he was thinking and it was a distinct challenge not to just profess _everything_ right there on the couch.

“He’ll lose his mind,” Killian mumbled, dropping back down to drag kisses along her neck and she gasped softly, fingers finding his hair again and they didn’t get off the couch for nearly fifteen minutes.

If put under oath or hooked up to a lie detector test, Killian would have promised that he didn’t consider the hours and minutes and moments until Saturday night, but he probably would have failed or been charged with contempt because he absolutely did all of those things and every single person in his life knew it.

Including the seven-year-old hanging off him on 49th Street.

“K,” Roland said brightly, screaming the letter in Killian’s ear. Will and Robin snickered. Actually snickered. Regina didn’t look impressed. “Why aren’t we moving?”  
  
“We will, mate,” Killian promised, staring straight ahead and he cold hear the music on the other side of the door even on the wrong side of the block. “We’re waiting on traffic.”   
  
Will snorted, taking a step towards the street with Henry plastered to his side. “Right, that was good, Hook. Traffic.” He laughed when he weaved his way through the stopped cars, Robin on his heels and Killian felt Regina’s hand press sharply on his shoulder blade, an unspoken command to _walk_ that he couldn’t really argue.

Henry swung the restaurant door open and the music was even louder inside – something that might have actually been a remix of _The Monster Mash_ echoing through the space – and Granny’s head darted up as soon as she heard them.

“They’re upstairs,” she said, answering a question none of them had asked.

Killian hummed, slightly surprised to hear that there even _was_ an upstairs, but Will kept marching forward and Henry was already talking battle plans and map potential and if he didn’t move, Regina was probably just going to murder him in between tables full of costumed tourists.

It wasn’t nearly as loud upstairs – but that was only because the music was actually the noise from the TVs in the corner and the shouts from a row of controller-wielding professional video game players.

Emma had her feet draped over David’s legs – one heel pressing into his thigh when he, apparently, did something wrong in the game – with Mary Margaret perched on the arm of a chair next to her. Ruby was sitting backwards in another chair, Belle muttering strategy behind her while Anna appeared to actually be playing the game while trying to also jump in the air.

Tink was pouring drinks.

“Ah, that looks like my area,” Regina muttered, barely waiting a moment before descending on the alcohol and Killian didn’t even try to stop his eyes from rolling into the back of his head.

“What are they playing, kid?” he asked Henry, but Roland answered with a loud _Mario Party!_ In his ear. Killian glared at Robin. “Teach your kid how to control his voice.”   
  
Emma glanced up at the brand new sound, smile immediate as soon as she realized the entire Mills Media contingent had arrived for Halloween in Midtown. “Hey,” she said, and David grumbled when she used him as leverage to get out of her chair. “What exactly are you supposed to be?”   
  
Killian didn’t answer immediately – far too distracted by the white dress and the actual feathers in her hair and the smile. Definitely the smile. She was smiling at him.

“I’m the working press,” Killian said, pointing his free hand at the index card stuffed into the brim of the hat he could only begin to imagine why Will had. “Look,” he added, nodding towards the piece of plastic hanging around his neck. “I even wore a credential and everything.”  
  
“This says it’s expired.”   
  
“Guess I won’t be getting any quotes tonight.”

Emma laughed, tugging on the back of Roland’s shirt. “And what are you, Rol?”

Roland twisted – managing to kick Killian with both of his feet and nearly choke him with his expired credential. “I’m Robin!”

“What?”

“Of Batman and,” Killian explained. “Locksley, however, refused to play the part the right way.”  
  
“I’m not wearing an entire bat costume in the middle of the city,” Robin shouted a few feet away, grabbing chairs and nodding in thanks to Elsa when she helped him organize them. “I don’t need to be on NY1 tonight.”   
  
“He’s cheating Halloween is what he’s doing,” Will muttered, already holding a drink that Regina probably made and probably had way too much alcohol in it. “Hook’s is the worst, though.”   
  
Killian glared at him, but it didn’t quite stick when he could still feel Emma’s smile and he wondered how long they could go in that very loud, very packed room before one of them just tugged the other back downstairs and started kissing.

“What are you, Swan?” he asked instead. “Where did you get feathers?”  
  
“Sixth Ave wholesale,” Emma laughed. “By pain of death. Because I needed a costume.”   
  
“And she put it off for days,” Ruby added, not taking her eyes off the screen and cursing at David when he did something wrong again. “God, Detective, how are you so bad at this? Do any of you want to play? You can’t be worse than David.”   
  
Henry and Roland volunteered immediately and David sighed dramatically, but he didn’t argue his departure, coming, instead, to wrap an arm around Emma’s shoulders. Killian wished he was still holding Roland – some kind of seven-year-old buffer in a painfully adorable superhero costume.

And the threat of being choked with his own expired credential was better than whatever Detective David Nolan was doing with his face.   
  
“I’m a swan,” Emma said eventually, voice even and maybe just a bit hopeful that her brother wouldn't start another interrogation. “Because I am a Halloween cop-out. Apparently.”   
  
“You both are,” David said. “Showing up exactly as you are. It’s cheating.”   
  
“You're wearing an actual police uniform,” Killian pointed out, and Emma laughed triumphantly.

“I told you that was cheating, too! I told you! M’s is going to retract eight-hundred points for that.”  
  
“Points?” Killian asked.

David sighed again. “It’s an ancient system,” he said. “Emma and Mary Margaret came up with it so they could lord their decisions over me. We each get points when we do something right and lose them when we do something. Don’t ask for conversion numbers, none of it actually makes any sense. A decade and later and I’m still fairly certain they just do it to drive me nuts.”  
  
“M’s, are you hearing this?” Emma laughed, and it might have been the greatest sound Killian had ever heard, the ease that it seemed to have when it just _fell_ out of her. She sounded happy.

Mary Margaret shook her head, a bottle in one hand and a plate of food in the other. “He’s just bitter. Don’t listen to him, Killian. He’s trying to make the point system seem less legit.”  
  
“It’s totally legit,” Emma promised, reaching forward and resting her palm on Killian’s arm. It felt like an electric shock. Her eyes widened slightly when she realized what she’d done, but she didn’t pull away and David didn’t even look surprised, just kept talking about points and history and it went that way for nearly four hours.

Roland fell asleep at some point, the controller in his hand landing on the floor when his grip gave up, and Henry wasn’t far behind, his head on Will’s legs when Scarlet took over Mario Party duties against both Anna and Elsa.

There was food and a few visits from Granny and Tink swiped Anna’s phone to start taking pictures promising she had to _document the moment_. Regina even smiled three times.

It was nearly midnight when Emma found him, leaning against the far wall and trying not to think about everything he’d been worried about all week. She was holding a bottle. “I totally stole this,” she told him, a glint of something that felt like mischief in her eyes. “Want to take a walk?”  
  
Killian nodded before he even considered the question. “I’d like nothing better.”

She laced her fingers through his when they worked their way down the stairs and the air was cold when they found themselves outside again – a bite that sent a chill down Killian’s spine and Emma shivered slightly. He wrapped his arm around her.

“Gentleman,” she muttered, and he hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She directed them back towards an alley on the other side of the block, the smell of garlic from the pizza place a few doors over almost oppressive in the tiny space.

“That’s very expensive rum, Swan,” Killian said, smiling in spite of his warning when Emma cracked the top of the bottle against the wall. “I can’t imagine Granny will appreciate that.”  
  
“And how exactly do you know the price tag of rum based on bottle?”   
  
Killian stuttered slightly at that, Emma’s eyebrows shifting as she held out the bottle in front of him. He took it, the alcohol hitting the back of his throat and burning slightly and it was all a bit too familiar for some kind of _new path_ he was working towards.

“Old habits,” he said when Emma didn’t stop staring at him. Her fingers were cold when they brushed against his and her whole body shook when she took her own drink. Killian slid out of his jacket quickly, holding the leather out in front of him and they were repeating each other again.

“You don’t need to do that,” Emma mumbled, but she took the jacket anyway, shaking her head when Killian twisted his wrist. “You going to explain these old habits now?”

It was a loaded question.

And, in another timeline, he probably would have done it all differently – wouldn’t have let her steal the rum or pull him out of that happy, warm bubble that had been Halloween upstairs, but he _wanted_ to tell her the truth and the words seemed to tumble out of him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Killian said. “That I should have explained in Philadelphia.”

Emma tilted her head slightly, eyeing him cautiously. “Should I be drinking more rum for this?”  
  
“No, no, it’s not...well, it is, but I want you to know.”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
“The reason I reacted the way that I did when you mentioned Gold was because I know him. Or know of him, rather.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked sharply, setting the bottle down on the ground and taking a step back. He should have known then. “How is that possible?”   
  
“Uh, I don’t know, entirely, but that’s what Ariel and I have been trying to figure out. And, well, you asked before. About Milah?” Emma’s eyes widened and Killian tried to pull in a steady breath. It didn’t work. “She...she was in New Orleans, was _everything_ in New Orleans, kept me...ah, centered isn’t right, but that’s what it was. That story was...it wasn’t easy and she made it worth it.”   
  
“What does she have to do with this Gold guy?”   
  
“She was married to him,” Killian said, wincing when Emma actually gasped. “Still. Even in New Orleans. I didn’t know until after and I didn’t...well, it wouldn’t have made a difference, honestly. She was in New Orleans though and she said he was somewhere else and I’ve never even met him. It didn’t matter then. Until…”   
  
Emma breathed out a quiet _ohhh_ and Killian wrapped his fingers around her wrist as soon as she took a step back towards him, left hand falling on her hip. “She died,” Killian said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “When I got hurt. Turned and got hit and it was...died on impact, they said, which, I don’t know, that’s something, I suppose.”   
  
He shook his head, Emma’s hand gripping his shirt tightly. “Anyway, I...well the first time I lost someone important to me I left New York and promised never to come back and I didn’t react much better when it came to Milah. That’s why I was so quick to get away from Robin and Gina and get to Boston and another job and whatever byline I could. With a considerable amount of rum. Anything that stopped me from thinking too much.”

Emma exhaled loudly, head falling forward slightly and he kissed the top of her hair before he could even think about all the reasons he shouldn’t have. “But you’re here now,” she muttered.

“Yeah, I am. And I thought I would be gone again, but then this story landed in my lap and you, well, you’re here, Swan.”  
  
She blinked quickly, _stunned_ settling on her face immediately and her hand fell away from his shirt. He should have known. “And what does Gold have to do with any of this? Is he...does he know you’re here?”   
  
“I have no idea,” Killian admitted. “I didn’t know he was interested in video game sponsorship until you said Helm offered you the trade. I don’t know what he’s playing at.”   
  
Emma shook her head again, eyes darting around the alley like she was looking for an escape route. “I don’t think he’s doing anything, love,” Killian continued, taking a step towards her. She moved again. “I just...I wanted you to know.”   
  
“Know what? That your girlfriend’s husband is paying for a bunch of assholes to play video games?”   
  
“No, I mean, kind of,” Killian sighed. “But mostly I wanted…” He took a deep breath and Emma stared at him, a mix of confusion and hope and want on her face. “I never thought I’d be able to let go of...of Milah. To think that I could find someone else. That is...until I met you.”

Emma didn’t say anything and the music was still there, barely a flicker in the background, but some kind of metronome that proved this wasn’t a dream or the biggest mistake Killian had ever made. She swallowed, a muscle in her jaw ticking and her eyes were on the wrong side of glossy when she looked back up at him.

His heart dropped to his feet – and maybe right in front of Emma.

“No,” she whispered, that piece of hair across her forehead moving when a gust of wind worked its way down the alley.

“No,” Killian repeated softly. His whole body felt empty.

“This is...God you can’t...this is video games!”  
  
“I’m aware of what it is, love, but I don’t think it’s been just video games, for either one of us, for quite some time.”   
  
Emma shook her head, blinking even more and she kept flexing her right hand. “I just want to win the games,” she said sharply. “I wasn’t….we weren’t…”   
  
“Were we not?”   
  
“Of course not. There are rules, Killian!”   
  
“I’m aware of the rules, Swan. And I’m fairly positive neither one of us has worried about any of them in the last two weeks. You wanted to know what I’m thinking, that’s what I’ve been thinking.”   
  
“That’s not fair.”   
  
“I’m not seeing that.”

She sighed loudly, licking her lips again and twisting the end of her hair around her finger. “I can’t...I’m not doing this. I just want to play the game and make some money and pay back Mary Margaret and David for…”  
  
“For what?” Killian asked. “You keep trailing off, Swan.”   
  
“Because it’s not any of your business,” Emma shouted, the glint in her gaze turning to steel as soon as she turned back towards him. “None of this is your business. I, God damn it, this wasn’t supposed to go like this. I…” She shook her head again, shoulders shifting when she caught her breath. “We’re not doing this. We’re playing a game.”   
  
Killian didn’t say anything when she walked away, didn’t call her name or follow her. He stood in the middle of an alley on 49th Street, picked up the broken bottle of very expensive rum at his feet and took more than one decidedly unhealthy drink.

And Will didn’t ask where he went when he opened the apartment door nearly two hours later, just turned the lock and left Killian on the couch with his own thoughts racing in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok, ok, stick me with me. This is the not the end far from it. There's a questionable amount of kissing and teamwork in our future, it's just a lot of coincidences and neither Emma nor Killian are doing a very good job of dealing with them quite yet. Plus, you know, it was AngstFest for a reason. 
> 
> Come flail or yell on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down, where I'm still doing a fic giveaway and shouting about the questionable number of words I'm writing, including some original words that you can buy and read in your own real, life hands.


	14. Chapter 14

“You’re going to punch a hole in that.”

Emma didn’t look up, didn’t look away from the screen, just hit her thumb, exactly, six times and David scoffed when the door clicked back into the frame. She heard him take a few steps forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight and he must have had a bag or something because it sounded like an anvil when it dropped on the floor.

She hit the ‘A’ button again. And then nearly growled when she drove off the track.

“Are you honestly sitting here playing MarioKart by yourself?” David continued, still talking and asking questions when Emma was positive he knew she didn’t want to do much of anything except play MarioKart by herself and, maybe, punch a hole in his Xbox controller.

He sighed when she didn’t answer, dropping onto the arm of the couch and leveling her with a stare he hadn’t used since he was nineteen. Emma didn’t look away from the screen.

“Alright,” David mumbled, toeing out of his shoes and resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. Emma bit back her immediate reprimand, something about _M’s is going to kill you when she finds out you did that_ because that would be talking and she didn’t want to talk and she just wanted to win this goddamn race.

There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

She should probably practice some more of the game, just a week removed from the opening round of the tournament and it had gotten absurdly cold in New York already and that felt like a metaphor too.

God, she’d driven off the road again. Track. It was called a track. She couldn’t even come up with the right words.

Fuck, that was another metaphor.

“Honestly, what is happening right now?” David demanded sharply, pulling his feet off the coffee table to push one of them into Emma’s thigh. She glared at him, finally glancing away from the screen long enough to see the concern on his face and the purple bags under his eyes.

She dropped the controller.

“What’s happening with you?” Emma asked. “Long time, no see or something like that.”

David shook his head, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and he was still wearing his tie, the fabric rumpling under him when he tried to kick her again. He nearly fell off the couch.

“Serves you right,” Emma mumbled, twisting around so she was facing him and he was half a second from sticking his tongue out her.

And they were very bad at holding a conversation – which generally required some kind of call and response. This just felt a bit like shouting back and forth at each other. Or mumbling. Emma wasn’t really shouting at anyone, even the computer opponent on the Xbox.

That might have been the biggest sign.

“When is the last time you played a game by yourself?” David asked, sliding onto the far side of the couch and twisting his legs up with Emma like they were sitting in Storybrooke and she dimly wondered if Mary Margaret or Ruby had put him up to this. She realized, rather quickly, that she didn’t really care.

Emma shrugged. “Probably when you forced a controller in my hand and told me to learn how to play so you’d eventually have someone to compete against.”  
  
“Biggest mistake of my life,” he grinned, wrapping a hand around her ankle and tugging slightly until Emma could feel some of the tension in between her shoulders evaporate. “That’s probably the last time you fell off the edge of Rainbow Road too. What’s on your mind, kid?”

Emma made a face – not sure where to start or how much David actually wanted to hear and she hadn’t even told Mary Margaret about what had happened in Philadelphia or after Philadelphia or why Killian had disappeared on Halloween.

She’d fallen back into _rules_ and _ethics_ and it was absolutely an excuse or a crutch or just, maybe, running away as quickly as she possibly could because the idea of what was actually happening was far too big and far too terrifying to even begin to deal with.

She was the dumbest person alive.

Fuck, the way he’d looked at her – like he absolutely believed every single word out of his mouth and every single time he kissed her and made out on couches in offices and maybe he believed _in_ her.

Maybe she wanted that.

A bit desperately.

None of this made any sense. There were too many moving pieces and too many rules and dead girlfriends and car accidents and Emma couldn’t come up with a way that it all connected unless it was just some kind of enormous joke the universe was playing on her, showing her some chance at _happiness_ and then making sure she wouldn't have it.

That wasn’t right either. She’d walked away from the happiness, had told Killian it was _a game_ and they were just playing games and the way he’d looked at her shifted suddenly, darker and disappointed and she should talk to him.

Emma didn’t even know where to start.

And she couldn’t play MarioKart when her mind was a million miles away or, maybe, several dozen blocks downtown and her phone hadn’t made any noise in the last week.

Absolutely the dumbest person alive.

“You’re doing it again,” David muttered, tapping his thumb on the foot Emma forgot he was holding. “That thing. You’re thinking so much, it’s nearly drowning out those shitty sound effects. The neighbors are going to be pissed off you’re playing so loudly.”  
  
“You going to cite me for a noise complaint, Detective?” Emma asked, and he shook his head, something that looked like a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“C’mon. I brought coffee if that makes a difference.”  
  
“You didn’t have to try and bribe me.”   
  
“Please, that’s the only way I was going to get you to even look my direction. This is tried and true Emma Swan zombie technique.”   
  
“Zombie,” Emma repeated, and the word came out a bit like a screech as David hopped back over the side of the couch, two, very large, cups in his hands. “Jeez,” she mumbled, taking the cup with her name written sloppily on the side. “Did the baristas think you were trying to wake someone up from the dead with your order?”   
  
David grinned – and for half a moment the bags under his eyes didn’t look quite as defined. “See, you’re totally on the zombie joke bandwagon now.”   
  
“I am not anywhere,” Emma promised. “Unless it’s a cab to Granny’s so I can get ready for practice. Also, I’m not sure if I should be offended that you’re suggesting I look like a zombie, because, then, you know, pot and kettle and stuff.”   
  
“I’m not sure you understand how that cliché works.”   
  
“You’re really trying to get me to throw this coffee in your face aren’t you?”   
  
“Nah,” David shook his head, smile still on his face and he looked as exhausted as Emma felt, but it also all felt painfully _normal_ and she was just a bit thankful for that. “That’d be kind of painful. Probably. I’ve never had coffee thrown in my face.”   
  
“I promise, it’d be painful.”

David hummed thoughtfully, but he didn’t say anything else and if Emma had fallen back into _zombie mode_ then her brother had fallen into _silent mode_ , a frustrating place where he clearly wanted to ask questions, but didn’t open his mouth until being prompted.

Emma groaned loudly, grabbing the controller with her free hand and trying, rather fruitlessly, to turn off the Xbox with her left hand. David stared at her for a few moments before taking pity on her and tugging the piece of plastic out of her hands.

He didn’t actually turn the game off, just sent her back to the menu screen and lowered the volume on the television and this suddenly felt ridiculous.

“I did something stupid,” Emma mumbled, licking her suddenly dry lips and looking anywhere except David’s stunned face.

“What kind of stupid?” he asked. “Illegal stupid? Kicked out of the League stupid? Need some kind of alibi stupid?”  
  
“I didn’t kill Neal if that’s what you’re suggesting.”   
  
David’s eyes flashed – a warning without actual words, but Emma couldn’t really breathe or bring herself to take a sip of her coffee and all these _signs_ felt like standing in the middle of Times Square and letting several cabs run her over. And then back up and try again.

“I would have been kind of disappointed if you hadn’t let me help with that one,” he muttered, drinking his own coffee.

“I know you’re worried.”  
  
“About you. I couldn’t possibly care less about him.”   
  
Emma twisted her lips, not quite a smile, but not quite a grimace either and she’d fallen right into David’s _talking_ plan. Just like he knew she would. He really didn’t need to bribe her with coffee. “It wasn’t any of those things,” she mumbled, staring at a loose piece of thread on the edge of the couch cushion under her feet. “Just plain, old generic stupid.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
She took a deep breath, glancing back at the menu on the screen. God, she was drowning in so many metaphors and clichés and _maybes_ she could barely see straight.

“I um…” Emma started, and this was harder than she expected it to be. David’s eyes were going to sustain permanent damage if he didn’t blink. “I asked Killian to come to Halloween. With everyone else. His friends or coworkers, no definitely friends. They’re friends.”

“I was there, Em,” he said slowly. “I figured you asked him. I mean you guys talk all the time.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Your phone has a very loud vibration setting,” he shrugged.

Emma let out a shaky laugh, leaning forward and resting her chin on her knees. “You and M’s need to talk about how eerily similar you are. And that’s not what I meant, not really, that wasn’t the first stupid thing I did.”  
  
“I still don’t understand.”   
  
“He and I...it’s, uh, complicated?”   
  
David blinked again, several times in quick succession like he was trying to make sure Emma hadn’t been abducted by aliens or disappeared off the couch. She tried to drink her coffee. Luke warm. God damn, the metaphors.

“Complicated,” David parroted, and Emma resisted the strong urge to throw her coffee at him again. “How complicated is complicated? Enough that I need to kill him?”  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be law enforcement? You’ve got very violent tendencies.”   
  
“That wasn’t an answer.”   
  
“No,” Emma sighed, and David appeared to take a deep breath for the first time since he’d walked into the apartment. “God. No, one needs to murder anyone because then that just gets even more complicated and we don’t have time for that. We have a game to play.”   
  
David moved his eyebrows, staring at Emma with a look she couldn’t quite name and absolutely did not appreciate. “Yuh huh,” he said skeptically. “Did you have to practice that one or you just come up with that little speech on the spot?”   
  
“Why are you being an asshole about this? Is it because you’re so clearly exhausted?”   
  
“We aren’t talking about me.”   
  
“Maybe we should be.”   
  
He shook his head again, tapping his fingers on the top of the coffee cup. “That’s not how this works.”   
  
“This interrogation?”   
  
“Em,” David groaned, and for half a moment she almost felt bad, but then she remembered the look on Killian’s face when she walked out of the alley, _ran out of the alley_ , and how silent her phone had been and everything that was riding on all of this and there was no universe where Emma got everything she wanted.

She wanted Killian quite a bit.

She wanted to win quite a bit.

She _wanted_ – in a way she absolutely never had before.

“Hey,” David said suddenly, reaching out to grab her wrist tightly and Emma jerked her head up. She was breathing heavily, shoulders moving quickly and the air rushing out of her nose like she couldn’t move it fast enough. David looked wide awake. “Hey,” he repeated, thumb tracing over a vein on the back of her arm. “It’s ok. It’s not an interrogation. There are no right or wrong answers here, I just want to make sure you’re alright.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, trying to breathe at a consistent level and they weren’t just sitting like they would have on Ruth’s couch, they were tucked into the back corner of the barn and she had straw in her hair and they were in Providence and an apartment in a tiny college town and David smiled at her.

“I like him,” she whispered, so softly she could barely even hear the words herself, but David must have understood because he barely waited a moment until he was tugging the coffee cup out of her hand and pulling her legs over his and hugging her within an inch of her life. He wrapped one arm around her waist and the other hand found its way to the back of her head and Emma pressed her face against the side of his neck, trying to breathe in the steady certainty of him.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” David mumbled against the crown of her head. He kissed her hair three times before Emma sat up straight.

“It’s complicated,” she said again and, that time, David’s hum didn’t serve to frustrate her. It, almost, calmed her. “Like...the most complicated thing it could possibly be.”  
  
“That doesn’t, by definition, make it bad, Em.”   
  
Emma groaned, working a laugh out of David and he squeezed her leg lightly when his hands fell back to her shins. “God, between you and M’s, I don’t know who is the most disgustingly optimistic.”   
  
“It’s Mary Margaret. Obviously. Don’t tell her I told you that.”   
  
“Your secret is safe with me,” Emma smiled. She ran a hand over her face, pressing her fingers into her cheekbones until it almost hurt and she couldn't remember the last time she’d lost control like that.

She didn’t enjoy it.

“It’s definitely bad though,” Emma continued. “Or, at least, not good. I think I really fucked this up and now...we need these stories and this publicity and the sponsors were happy with Philadelphia, that’s what Elsa said, but there’s always more and the next thing and it’s just…”

She trailed off, not sure what to say next and David smiled encouragingly at her. “A lot?” he asked, and Emma nodded. “Yeah, I get that. The stories aren’t going anywhere, kid.”  
  
“I know, I know. He’s got to do his job. He’s not going to just walk away from that.”   
  
“That’s not even remotely what I meant.”

Emma rolled her eyes and David’s smile turned a bit more amused. “You’re also less tactful than M’s is. And what did you mean by that?”  
  
“By what?”   
  
“You said, yeah, I get that. What do you get?”   
  
The smile fell off David’s face immediately, morphing back into exhaustion and something that might have been a grimace or a sneer. He took four gulps of coffee before he answered. “Work stuff,” he said, quick and short and Emma rolled her eyes again.

“You just expect me to believe that?” she asked. “You’re the one who looks like an actual zombie in this scenario. M’s said you were working a new case and you weren’t giving her any details. That’s not like you.”  
  
“Mary Margaret told you that? Weren’t we talking about you? Let’s go back to that.”

“Weeks ago. Before Philadelphia even. And you’ve only gotten worse since then. Your shifts don’t even make any sense anymore. I thought you were a normal nine-to-five’r so you could see M’s and start living that beautiful, two-point-five children life.”  
  
“You are sleeping in the corner of my living room.”   
  
“And you’re avoiding, Detective. Do you need me to also buy you bribe-talking coffee? Would that make this easier?”

“Nah, probably not,” David admitted. “Although I am pretty tired. You were right about the distinct lack in shifts that make any sense.”  
  
“Are we talking about the shifts themselves or what’s happening on these shifts?”   
  
“I’m way too tired to try and understand anything you just said, but let’s just go ahead and assume I agreed to both of them, ok?”   
  
Emma nodded. She forgot her coffee wasn’t scalding hot anymore, moaning softly when she took another sip and David might have actually lost his grip on reality because he practically cackled in front of her. “Bad case, then?”

“Eh, not bad, so much as complicated.”  
  
“And you couldn’t tell M’s that?” Emma asked. “She hasn’t actually come out and said anything, but I’d bet you the three million we’re maybe going to win that she’s absolutely terrified of what you’re not telling her.”   
  
“You’re going to win the three million dollars,” David said quickly and easily and he definitely believed in her too.

“That’s not the point of this conversation.”  
  
“I’ve lost the point of this conversation a bit, if we’re being honest.”   
  
“Dramatic cases, exhaustion, something about zombie insults and being the dumbest people on the planet,” Emma recounted, ticking off each of the points on her fingers until she worked a slightly more human-sounding laugh out of David.

“I don’t know that I should be included in the dumbest people on the planet,” he argued.

“You haven’t told M’s about your exhausting investigation. That’s dumb. Even if you can’t give her details, you could at least let her know that you’re not going to die.  
  
“I’m not going to die.”   
  
It didn’t sound like the refusal it probably should have. It sounded as rehearsed as her own speech a few moments before and David, suddenly, seemed very interested in that same piece of couch string.

Emma’s stomach lurched.

“Yuh huh,” she mumbled. “Alright, you want to try that again or you just want to keep dancing around things?”  
  
David’s eyes flashed back up towards her and he almost looked entertained. “We’re good at that. You said absolutely nothing about why your situation with your journalist is so complicated.”   
  
“He’s not my journalist,” Emma said, but that sounded like a lie too. David ripped the string off the couch.  “You don’t have to give me actual details,” she continued, not entirely sure why she suddenly _wanted_ to talk. “But you know a general idea that you’re not actually putting your life on the line here would be awesome.”

“I’m not,” David said, shaking his head and he’d finished his coffee, the empty cup sounding like a boulder when he placed it back on the table. “Putting my life or anyone else’s life on the line for any of this. It’s very generic racketeering. At least it should be.”  
  
“Then why the hours?”

“Because none of it makes any sense.”  
  
“God, we’re horrible at talking. Try again, Detective.”   
  
David sighed, shoulders heaving slightly and he was off the couch, pacing out a small square in front of Emma with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his tie still slightly rumpled. “None of it makes any sense,” he said again, and it sounded like he was talking to himself. “It’s racketeering, it should be by the book and cut and dry and it should have been done before you even went to Philadelphia, but it’s…”   
  
“Not that,” Emma finished and David nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”

“I know this guy is an asshole and I know he’s doing something illegal, but I can’t figure out what. Every case he’s had seems by the book, but then we’ve got claims of tampering and harassing witnesses and one witness that just disappeared and none of it makes any sense!”  
  
David sighed again, resting his hands flat on his thighs and he wasn’t really standing up straight and those were a lot more facts than Emma expected. She opened her mouth, not quite sure what she was going to say or ask, but David kept talking.

And pacing.

He was going to put a hole in the floor.

“He’s not even just New York based,” David continued, frustration obvious in every single letter. “He’s got connects all over the country, which is part of the problem because now One Penn wants to bring in federal help and that’s the last thing I need, just more red tape and more paperwork and more people asking me questions.”  
  
“Are a lot of people questioning you?” Emma asked. David didn’t even slow down his pace before he started grumbling again, a string of curses she hadn’t heard since Providence and maybe she should just _make_ coffee.

She still wasn’t quite sure how to use the coffee maker.

“An absolutely ridiculous amount,” David admitted. “Because this could be big. It is already big. It would just be better if I could actually pin down what he’s done. Everything checks out.”  
  
“And that’s bad?”   
  
David nodded, tongue darting in between his lips, and Emma couldn’t remember a time when he looked quite that determined. Or furious. He looked absolutely furious. “It’s absolutely bad,” he confirmed. “Because it’s too good. There’s no way a guy like this, who I’m fairly certain was just built out of some kind of slime and sleaze and sewage, can be this straight and narrow.”   
  
“You think someone is covering his tracks,” Emma suggested. David looked a little stunned.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s exactly what I think. That was good, Em.”  
  
Emma shrugged, but there was more to this story and maybe she was just absurdly good at picking up on the traits of those around her. “It’s been known to happen sometimes. Ok, so, this guy’s a lawyer then?”   
  
“How’d you figure that?”   
  
“You said witnesses. Several times.”   
  
“Ah, well, shit,” David muttered, but he didn’t sound particularly upset and Emma got the distinct impression he was just happy to tell someone _something_ at this point. “Yeah, he’s a lawyer. Top tier, corporate, probably worth more than any of us combined and then some. That’s why this is so big. He’s got a ton of connections to a ton of places, but he’s got some big-time ties to people here in New York. This might lead to a lot more.”   
  
“You sound a little conspiracy theory over there.”   
  
“A hazard of the job,” David laughed, finally sitting down and the whole couch shook when he crashed back into the corner. “Although it’s not so much conspiracy as it is absolute certainty that this guy is an absolute bastard.”   
  
Emma made a face – the _acid_ in David’s voice catching her off guard and he was serious. No wonder he wasn’t sleeping. He looked bordering dangerously closed to possessed. “You don’t know who he’s working for then?”

“No, no, I do. And some names pop up more than others, but that’s privileged information, Em. It is an open investigation after all.”  
  
“C’mon, a clue. Who am I going to tell?”   
  
“You literally just told me you have a complicated relationship with a journalist with a crime-writing past.”   
  
“I never once used the word relationship,” Emma argued, but it sounded far too breathless and decidedly _pushy_ and David didn’t even try to disguise his scoff.

“Yeah, you didn’t really have to,” he grinned. “And you said it yourself, you invited him to Halloween. And then he left Halloween. And you’re playing MarioKart by yourself at two in the afternoon. It’s not hard to put those pieces together.”  
  
“The pride of New York strikes again.”   
  
David clicked his tongue, but he pulled Emma’s legs back over his and closed his eyes lightly. “If he can get some charges to stick. I just can’t figure out the New Orleans connection.”

Emma nearly fell off the couch.

David’s eyes snapped open, something that looked like pure, unadulterated fear coursing off him and neither one of them said anything for what felt like several days.

“He’s connected to New Orleans?” Emma asked, whispering out the words and breaking the silence and she probably wouldn’t have noticed David’s nod if she weren’t desperately looking for it.

“Maybe,” David said.

It sounded a bit like a warning. Emma had never been good at heeding those.

“How?” she pressed, trying to turn her legs into cement or weights so he wouldn’t be able to get up or start pacing or absolutely ignore her. “Does he know…”  
  
David shook his head. “Not that I can tell,” he sighed, answering the question she hadn’t actually been able to come up with. “There’s nothing official, that I can find, at least, aside from some regularly scheduled trips to New Orleans. It’s like clockwork though. Every couple of months, even recently.”   
  
“Recently,” Emma repeated. David hummed in response and he was right – none of this made any sense. “Those stories ran six years ago. There can’t be a connection, right?”   
  
“I don’t think so. Do you?”   
  
“I’m not a member of the New York Police Department.”   
  
David shrugged. “I still value your opinion. You think my guy Hans had something to do with Killian’s stories? It does kind of fit the mold, even if there’s nothing in public record.”

“What about private record?” Emma asked. “Is that a thing? Also Hans? Seriously? Where did this guy come from?”  
  
“It’s definitely a thing. But that’s part of the problem, anything that isn’t on the up and up is going to get thrown out as soon as we can get in front of a judge. I just wish I knew what he was doing in New Orleans.”   
  
Emma nodded in understanding, not entirely sure she did _actually_ understand, but she didn’t know what else to do and it was difficult to try and process anything when it felt like her head was spinning.

“You need to tell M’s you’re not dying,” Emma said eventually, and David sunk even further into the corner of the couch.   
  
“Yeah, I know. I’ve just been frustrated and this shouldn’t be this difficult and the feds shouldn’t be involved and we should be focused on you.”   
  
“Me?”

“Obviously.”  
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows, stomach doing something stupid again, like it was trying to work its way out out of her throat or just straight through her skin and neither were particularly pleasurable options. David looked confused.

“Why is that weird?” he asked. “I mean, you’re going to win, but you’re very clearly worried you’re not going to win and whatever you’ve got going on with your journalist is big in a several underlines kind of way. I can hear you punishing that air mattress into submission every night.”  
  
“Maybe that should tell you something about your working hours, Detective,” Emma seethed. “We’ve already talked about this. He’s neither my journalist, nor is he just the journalist. He’s got a name.”

“And you’re allowed to be happy,” David said pointedly. “That’s what we’re all trying to do, kid. Particularly when it comes to you. And you haven’t looked all that happy or unzombie like in the last few days. You’re so focused on everything that’s happened, that you’re missing all the good moments happening right now.”  
  
David widened his eyes meaningfully – like that proved _that_ and it was a good thing Mary Margaret hadn’t gotten home from school yet because Emma was positive she wouldn’t have been able to stand up to a tag-team effort of this.

_What happens next_.

Fuck.

“Moments, huh?” Emma asked, and David actually mouthed the word _yup_ at her, somehow managing to pop his lips on a word he hadn’t actually said out loud.

She shook her head, something about _crushing romanticism_ and the _ridiculous turns of this conversation,_ but her eyes snapped back towards the coffee table and half-finished cups as soon as he phone started vibrating on the Ikea-purchased, not-quite-wood finish.

Her breath hitched when she saw the name flash across the screen.

Killian Jones.

“Em,” David muttered. She didn’t move. “Em. Emma. Emma!”

He elbowed her – not quite trying to avoid _pain_ the way he probably should have – and she shot him a look. The phone stopped ringing. “Oh, well, shit,” Emma sighed, grabbing it and clicking her tongue when it _dinged_ in her hand. “I’m blaming you for this.”   
  
“What?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, hitting buttons that weren’t actually buttons and pressing the phone against her ear and he sounded frustrated on the voicemail.

“Swan,” Killian started, tone clipped and her stomach stayed in place when she heard his voice, but the rest of her body didn’t get that particular memo and Emma was the one pacing now, David’s eyes boring into the back of her head as she moved. “I realize things have fallen off the rails a bit here, but Henry needs some help with questions and a paper that is, apparently, due later this week. This was...well, he was supposed to text you, but he’s eleven and that’s about as good excuse as any. So I’m here, doing the dirty work of an eleven-year-old and…”  
  
The message cut off and Emma actually punched the air, certain her current brand of frustration was also the fault of all the oxygen in the room and her phone buzzed again.

**2:37 pm:** **_Swan, if you could just give me a call so I can tell Henry when to call you, that would be fantastic._ **

“Em,” David said cautiously, but she brushed him off, still pacing and hitting buttons that weren’t buttons and Killian answered on the second ring.

“Swan,” he muttered.

She stopped pacing.

“Hi,” Emma said. “I got your message. I, well, it totally makes me sound like an ass if I say I forgot about this paper doesn’t it?”

She could practically hear Killian shaking his head – the sound of not-so-distant traffic echoing on the other end of the phone and he’d called her from his office. “Nah,” he countered. “He’s eleven. He’s going to put off school assignments until the very last minute. The only reason that isn’t happening is because he told me about it last night and I said I’d take care of it.”  
  
Emma nearly broke the coffee table when she dropped onto it, the whole thing _groaning_ under her weight and David had moved, but he still shouted _God, Em, be careful_ from the kitchen. “You said you’d take care of it?” Emma echoed, every muscle in her body tense as soon as Killian made some kind of noise in the affirmative. “Why?”   
  
Something creaked on the other end of the phone and he was definitely in his office because that was definitely the couch and Emma tried not to scream _why_ again. “This was my idea,” Killian said. “And Henry’s got school and…”   
  
“And my number,” Emma finished.

“What?”  
  
“Henry’s got my number. I gave it to him when we were at school. He’s had it the whole time.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Did he not mention that?”   
  
Killian laughed, but it wasn’t the easy, happy sound Emma had grown accustomed to in the last few weeks. It sounded frustrated. That seemed like a trend. “No, he did not,” he admitted. “God, he’s definitely not eleven. There’s no way.”   
  
“Sneaky. And just a little heavy-handed.”   
  
“Ah, well, he’s learning from the best over here. His parents have absolutely no tact either.”   
  
“Maybe they’re taking lessons from my team.”   
  
“Maybe,” Killian laughed again, his quiet exhale barely audible over several dozen blocks, but Emma swore she could feel it in the very center of her. She waited for the rest – another question or a follow-up or some other kind of decidedly romantic declaration that, maybe, this time, she wouldn’t run away from, but nothing came and any ideas that this conversation was anything except absolutely awful seemed to evaporate right in front of her.

“So….”

“He needs to ask you a couple of questions,” Killian said, falling back into _impassive journalist_ quicker than she expected. “It probably won’t take more than half an hour.”

Emma nodded at the empty living room, tugging on the end of her hair and probably doing more damage to the coffee table. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” she sputtered. “I...you said it’s not due tomorrow?”  
  
“No, but you know, the sooner the better or whatever. God, I feel like his agent or something.”   
  
The laugh she let out wasn’t a sound Emma was sure she’d ever made before – breathless and nervous and full of several different emotions she still refused to put a name to – but she heard the couch creak again and Killian kept moving.

Maybe they were on even footing.

“We have practice tonight?” she asked, not sure why she’d phrased it in the form of a question like she was a fucking contestant on Jeopardy.

“Ok,” Killian said slowly. “Maybe before? Or after? Or tomorrow? I don’t know what an eleven-year-old’s schedule is like. I probably should have asked that before, right?”  
  
“You didn’t realize he already had my number either.”   
  
“I don’t think I’m capable of actually grounding him, but I could mention it to Locksley. We’ll leave Gina out of this entirely.”   
  
Emma chuckled and the vice that had been squeezing her stomach and, possibly, her heart seemed to loosen slightly. “You don’t have to do either. He can come to practice tonight. If he wants. Or if his parents say it’s ok. It’s a school night, right?”   
  
“It’s Thursday, love.”   
  
“Right, right,” she mumbled, digging her heels into the floor. She couldn't’ start pacing – or walk down Broadway again. She really did have to go to practice. “Well, we start pretty early. Six’ish. Upstairs. You could…”   
  
“I could what, Swan?”   
  
“You could bring him if you want.”

“What do you want?”  
  
Oh. That wasn’t the follow-up she was expecting. And it felt like a very loaded question. “I don’t want Henry to get held back in fifth grade because he blew off an assignment while trying to play matchmaker.”   
  
Killian clicked his tongue and there was a knock on his office door, a quiet tap and an even quieter muttering that sounded like _yeah, A, come in_ and Emma was pacing. Again. God damn. “He’s not going to get held back on one paper,” Killian said distractedly, what sounded like several tons of _something_ being dropped on the floor. “But if you don’t mind him coming later then I don’t see why he can’t.”   
  
“Ok,” Emma murmured. “So...later?”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
David tried to go to practice with her, but the last thing Emma needed was a chaperone and he really needed to convince Mary Margaret he wasn’t half a breath away from death and she didn’t want to answer any more questions.

Unless they were coming from an eleven-year-old. In which case she was determined to answer those questions.

The restaurant was already packed when she walked in, Granny hardly looking up from the corner of the bar and there were waitresses everywhere and bags everywhere and Emma tried to weave her way upstairs without actually stepping on anything.

There were several near misses.

And she could already hear Ruby yelling as soon as her foot landed on the first step.

They were playing the game – the whole lot of them sitting in mismatched chairs with headsets and keyboards resting on legs and one person who yelled louder than even Ruby. Or Emma. Henry shouted a string of commands and the rest of the team nodded in agreement, keys clicking and mouses clacking and Ruby actually _asked_ about strategy, glancing at the kid on her left side with something that felt a bit like fondness on her face.

He answered quickly and confidently and Emma hadn’t moved a single inch, couldn’t bring herself to take another step or interrupt the scene in front of her. She didn’t notice the feet moving her direction until the floor creaked and her neck actually cracked when she snapped her head up to find herself face to face with Killian.

“Swan,” he said, and she wished he’d come up with some other greeting. Or an explanation. Or, maybe, that was just her.

She should explain.

On the record. With a recorder for posterity.

“Hey,” Emma muttered, breathing out the word like it was the first time she’d ever addressed another person in her life. Killian’s lips twitched, one side turning up slightly and Emma still hadn’t moved, but Ruby realized she was there and there went any chance of talking.

She squeezed her eyes closed, taking a deep breath and it didn’t really do anything, not with Killian just a few inches away from her and Henry already shouting questions and Ruby and Elsa talking about strategy and plans and Anna kept trying to ask where Will was.

“Is that something that’s happening?” Emma asked, not even bothering to open her eyes.

“I honestly have no idea,” he admitted. “But I’ve got some fairly strong suspicions.”  
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“Exactly.”

She opened her eyes slowly, only to wish she hadn’t as soon as she saw the slightly cautious look on Killian’s face and the nerve she could almost _taste_ or something equally insane and this was twenty-seven thousand steps back. They probably tripped over their own feet too. And scraped their knees.

“Emma, Emma, Emma,” Henry called, nearly knocking the chair he was still sitting in over when he twisted around to shout at her. “Can we do the interview now?”

“Yeah, of course,” she nodded. “You’ve got questions and everything?”  
  
“Hook helped me.”   
  
Her eyes darted towards Killian, a hand in his hair and the tips of his ears red and Ruby laughed loudly. No tact, whatsoever. “You did?” Emma asked, far too breathless and far too emotional and maybe they could _talk_ after the interview.

They should probably talk after the interview.

“Not much,” Killian said gruffly, eyes falling back towards his shoes and she’d _walked away_. She’d left him in a goddamn alley and she’d walked away and he’d helped an eleven-year-old fine-tune an interview with her.

What an absolute mess.

“Emma,” Henry pressed, suddenly standing next to her and Killian and she’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t even heard him move. “I’ve got to be home by eight.”

“Right,” she said quickly and a bit over-enthusiastic and Ruby laughed again. “You get food? Do you need food? Are you allowed to have food?”  
  
“Ruby said you’d probably want onion rings when you got here.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s good. Um...let’s walk and talk and we’ll get onion rings and you can ask questions. You have a pen?”   
  
Emma glanced at Killian before she could stop herself, his expression unreadable and eyes still on his shoes and she was absolutely horrible at injecting humor into the single-most uncomfortable situation she’d ever been in.

“I’ve got a recorder,” Henry said, waving the device in front of him and that was Killian’s too.

_God_.

She chanced another look to her left, but Killian didn’t lift his gaze and his hand had fallen out of his hair only to wrap around his forearm and just above his brace and Emma wondered if anyone in that tiny room upstairs could hear her ridiculously fast heartbeat.

She hoped not.

“Alright, kid,” she said, doing her best to plaster a smile on her face as she slung an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Let’s go get those onion rings and some answers, huh?”

It wasn’t nearly as bad as Emma assumed it would be – but she wasn’t sure if that was because of the _several_ plates of onion rings she and Henry devoured or how good his questions actually were or how much she just wanted to _help_ on some kind of deeply fundamental level.

It might have been all of those reasons.

And maybe she was playing to her audience just a bit.

“Ok, which Halo was it, again?” Henry asked, not for the first time and Emma couldn’t suppress her smile at the enthusiasm in his voice. “And where was that tournament?”  
  
“It was 4,” Emma answered again. “And that was Savannah and there was some kind of partnership with the School of Design and classes and Ruby’s very angry she didn’t get to go. Isn’t that right, Rubes?”   
  
Ruby stuck her tongue out, turning her attention away from the game they were playing and this wasn’t really a practice because Emma couldn’t really practice while answering questions and she’d eaten far too many onion rings.

And Killian hadn’t moved from the far corner of the room, thumb scrolling down his phone like it was glued there.

“I didn’t want to go to Savannah because I had other, super important things to do,” Ruby announced. Henry laughed. Maybe Granny had ice cream somewhere. “Plus, you know, that humidity, it’s just a disaster.”

“It was November,” Emma muttered, drawing another laugh out of Henry. Killian didn’t move. “And she was way too busy playing Minecraft.”  
  
“What?” Henry exclaimed. He wasn’t the only one. Elsa laughed loudly, head thrown back and headset on the floor, and Tink looked somewhere between stunned and hysterical, while Anna’s whole body had fallen forward and Belle just kept mumbling questions under her breath.

“Thanks a lot, Em,” Ruby grolwed. Emma shrugged, the smile on her face finally feeling genuine. She glanced towards the corner, Killian still staring a hole into his phone and shoulders just as straight as ever, but she thought she noticed his tongue move against his cheek and maybe that was something.

Maybe she was insane.

“For the record, as it were,” Ruby continued, moving towards Henry and tapping on the top of his recorder. “Minecraft is super popular and was super popular then and it made me some money when I wasn’t trying to establish myself as the greatest waitress in the entire city. And, you know, what? Savannah is overrated, right Jones?”  
  
Emma groaned softly and Killian moved, face still even and uninterested, but his eyes flashed towards hers. “I wouldn't know, I’ve never been to Savannah,” he muttered, gaze still on Emma. “Atlanta, but I don’t think that counts.”   
  
“If this were a conversation about Atlanta.”   
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“Well, then you’ve answered your own question.”   
  
Killian tilted his head and Emma tried not to groan _loudly_ , particularly when Ruby seemed to be challenging both of them to _do something_ and neither one of them moved. Emma, however, had always been very good at running. And even the enthusiastic questions of an eleven-year-old weren’t quite enough to keep her in that room much longer.

“I’m going to go get something to drink,” she announced. “Anyone want anything?”

There were shouts and orders and Emma found herself promising she’d try and find ice cream for Henry’s ice cream soda request and she was behind the bar five minutes later, mixing her own drinks and wondering how she was going to get everything back upstairs in one trip.

She didn’t have to.

He followed her. Of course he did.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, far too close and not close enough and the restaurant was far too loud. He tried to smile and it didn’t really work, not quite reaching his eyes, but he kept staring at her and, maybe, rocked forward, like he was fighting off the urge to touch her.

“You’ve got to say something else,” Emma sighed and, the force of Killian’s answering smile nearly sent her backwards.

“I’m sorry, love.”  
  
“God, not that either.”   
  
The smile faltered slightly, turning into something that might have been a bit closer to frustration. “Is there a list of things I am allowed to say?”

Emma rolled her eyes and her head and her shoulders and nearly knocked over the bottle of strawberry flavored vodka near her elbow. Killian didn’t say anything else, just kept staring at her – blue eyes and arms cross over his chest and there was one piece of hair sticking up on the back of his head that she wanted to flatten just a bit more than she should.

“You don’t have to run, Emma,” Killian said softly, taking a step towards her until their shoes were nearly touching and everything felt like it was spinning again. “Not from me, at least.”  
  
She shook her head, not sure sure if she was objecting to the words or the sentiment or just trying to get her bearings. “Stop it,” Emma muttered. “Just...stop.”   
  
Killian hummed, nodding once and taking a step back. “Why?”   
  
“Why what?”   
  
“This is...well, it’s whatever you want it to be, Swan, but it could be good. It was already good, don’t you think?”   
  
“Maybe,” Emma shrugged, doing her best to sound impassive and knowing it worked about as well as it had when he tried to smile. “But isn’t that reason enough to…”   
  
“Run?”   
  
“No, no,” she said quickly. God, _exactly that_ and maybe Granny wouldn’t mind if she just started taking swigs of strawberry-flavored vodka in front of the customers and behind the bar where she wasn’t supposed to be. “No one is running. We can’t, right? You’ve got the story and I’ve got the team and the rest of it is just...that can’t happen.”   
  
Killian eyed her for a moment, his whole body moving when he sighed. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Right. So everything in Philadelphia and before Philadelphia and after Philadelphia was some kind of, what, a mistake?”

“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“You didn’t really have to, Swan. It’s written all over your face. And if that didn’t prove it, the literal running away on Halloween helped. You wanted to talk, let’s talk then.”   
  
“There is a kid upstairs who needs me to answer questions.”   
  
“You already did that,” Killian pointed out. “He was starting to type as soon as you came downstairs. There’s no excuse here, love. Either you want to talk to me or you don’t.”   
  
“And what if I don’t?”   
  
“Then I would offer to carry a few drinks, go back to my designated corner and make sure Henry gets home at an appropriate time so I don’t get yelled at by Gina or Locksley or some combination of both.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes. “Just like that?”   
  
“Just like that.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“We’re doing that repeating thing again, love,” he said, and Emma didn’t think he realized how often he’d called her that. Three times. Since he’d walked behind the bar. And that one time on the phone.

It didn’t matter.

Of course not.

“That’s not an answer,” Emma muttered, pouring the strawberry-flavored vodka into two shot glasses and holding one out expectantly. Killian took it immediately, both of them twisting their wrists and Emma shivered when the alcohol landed in her stomach. Or wherever it went. It tasted like crap.

“God, that’s awful,” Killian said. “And the answer is that this isn’t some kind of test, love. There’s no pushing or pulling or moving any direction. There is…” He took a deep breath and Emma tried not to blink. “Just trying to get you to trust me.”  
  
“You think I don’t trust you?”

“I’m fairly certain, yes.”

There weren’t any chairs behind the bar and the wall was covered in bottles and glasses and she didn’t have anywhere to go – Killian in front of her and a bartender behind her and Emma couldn't remember anyone looking at her like that, like he wanted as much as she did.

“Nothing I’ve said to you was a lie, Emma,” Killian continued, voice low and intent and she was certain it landed somewhere in the middle of her rib cage. “Not a single word.”  
  
“Do you know a lawyer named Hans?” Emma asked suddenly, and she wasn’t sure why the words seemed to fly out of her mouth or what happened once her jaw actually snapped shut, just that Killian nearly tripped over himself backing up from her.

She didn’t try and find another glass before just drinking straight out of the strawberry-flavored vodka bottle.

“What?” he breathed, hand back in his hair and eyes just a bit closer to manic than she’d ever seen them. “How do you know about that?”

“I don’t know anything.”  
  
“Swan, how do you know that name?”

“So there is a connection?”  
  
“Be more specific.”   
  
“I can’t,” Emma groaned, well aware of Granny staring at them from the other side of the restaurant and they were causing a scene. The tourists would probably take videos. They could post that on their Instagram account too.

“Why?” Killian asked. His hand moved back to his prosthetic, ghosting over plastic and up towards his elbow and he was absolutely doing it without thinking and Emma couldn’t keep up with any of this.

“Why can’t I be more specific?” He nodded. “Because my brother will actually kill me and he didn’t even want to tell me, but he said this guy is going to New Orleans all the time and they’re... _god_ , fuck, Killian! I can’t tell you, I just wanted to know.”   
  
He shook his head quickly, stepping back into her space and Emma tried not to actually gasp. That would have been a little harlequin.

“Know what?” Killian pressed. “If I just know every criminal that’s ever set foot in the city of New Orleans? Seems awfully presumptuous.”  
  
Emma groaned – _loudly_ – and stamped her foot and it wasn’t harlequin, but it was a bit childish and Killian actually laughed at her. “Why are you being an ass about this? What do you know?”   
  
“The entire criminal history of an entire southern city, apparently.”   
  
“God damnit, it was just a question. David said…”   
  
“What?” Killian interrupted. “David said what, exactly?”   
  
“It’s an open investigation! I can’t answer that!” Killian blinked and grabbed the vodka. Emma might have actually growled. “Stop! Stop it,” she shouted, tugging the bottle out of his hand and sliding it back down the bar. It broke a glass. “There is an eleven-year-old upstairs who is depending on you to get home.”   
  
Killian glared at her, but Emma didn’t move and this was conversational whiplash. “It’s not like I drove, Swan.”   
  
“What aren’t you telling me?”   
  
“Me,” he repeated loudly and they were definitely drawing the tourist’s attention. “Swan, are you serious? You’re the one who brought up Hans the incredibly sleazy lawyer. And, for the record and on the record and every other iteration of that, you are the one who isn’t telling me things. Were you ever going to mention Savannah? Or the team you were on before?”   
  
Emma’s whole body recoiled at his voice, fear rippling through every inch of her and she didn’t know if it was because he was right or because he already knew something she hadn’t told him.

“Are you...are you researching me? Is that what’s happening here?”  
  
Killian tugged on his hair, rolling his shoulders and he shook his head. “No, that’s absolutely not what’s happening here. What is happening here, however, is you not telling me things or trusting me enough to tell me things.”

“Answer the question, Killian!”  
  
“Swan, you started this conversation. I just wanted to help with drinks and, maybe, ice cream.”   
  
“Don’t lie to me like that,” she hissed. “You want answers too. On the record.”   
  
“Fuck the record,” he growled, and Emma’s whole body snapped against that metaphorical whiplash. “I couldn’t give a shit about the record. How do you know about Hans?”   
  
“How do you?” Emma challenged. They were going in circles, twisting and turning around each other and the truth and how much Philadelphia had meant.

To both of them.

“He got Helm out of jail in New Orleans,” Killian bit out, bending down to grab another glass and reaching for the soda gun. “Here,” he said, pushing the glass of water towards Emma. “It’s mostly so you don’t have to have that horrible strawberry taste in your mouth.”  
  
“A gentleman then, huh? In between stalking attempts.”   
  
“There is no stalking,” Killian sighed. “There is just...general curiosity. I can’t turn that off.”   
  
“In me or the sleazy lawyer?”   
  
“Decidedly both, but you’re definitely winning, love.”   
  
“Gee thanks,” Emma muttered, and they both rolled their eyes at the sarcasm. “Really, why do you care about Jeff? And what do you mean got him out of jail? He served his time, right?”

Killian shook his head slowly and he didn’t look quite as angry anymore. He looked nervous. _Terrified_. “Officially, yes,” he said. “Unofficially Hans Norge got him out on some kind of shady deal that we can’t figure out yet.”   
  
“We?”   
  
“There’s a reason Ariel isn’t the receptionist anymore. She’s very good at research. Is...is your brother investigating Hans?”   
  
This was not where Emma saw the night going. She’d be the first to admit she didn’t have much of a plan or even many expectations aside from a generic hope that maybe she could just apologize and explain and maybe kiss Killian again, but that all felt a bit selfish and he’d been looking things up.

He knew things.

And she was back at square one of walls and secrets and he couldn’t know the rest of it.

Whiplash hurt like hell.

“I can’t talk about it,” Emma repeated.

Killian’s shoulders sagged. “This is insane,” he mumbled.

“I’ve heard that before. It’s like there’s a theme or something.”

“Why did you ask about Hans, Swan? The truth this time.”  
  
She didn’t have an answer. She had a hunch and a suspicion and this was as _insane_ as each of them kept promising it was, connections or _maybe connections_ and there must be a different lawyer named Hans who went to New Orleans regularly and lived in New York and David couldn’t be investigating the same person.

It didn’t make sense.

Neither did Emma wanting to talk to Killian Jones. Or trusting Killian Jones as much as she absolutely already did.

“I don’t know,” she lied. He knew it too, eyes closing lightly and lips quirking downward slightly and Emma felt like she’d just sustained several punches to her metaphorical gut.

“So it’s not because you absolutely don’t trust me?”  
  
“Oh my God will you stop saying that?” she barked. “That’s not what this is. There are just...it’s complicated.”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
“Isn’t it?”

Killian pressed his lips together tightly, glancing up when Henry called his name and the clock had struck midnight or curfew or maybe they all just turned into pumpkins and this was, absolutely, not a fairy tale.

Emma had, apparently, lost all sense of tact as well.

“Yeah,” he answered, and Emma’s heart thudded in her chest again. “Yeah, I guess it is. But this won’t happen again, Swan. You’re right, I do believe in some kind of good form.”

He took a step forward, close enough to probably hear her heart, but not enough to touch her and Emma bit her lip when her eyes met his. “And I’m not going to push, love. So anything that happens from here on out, and something is going to happen, it won’t be because of any trickery, it’ll be because you want me.”

She didn’t respond – had _no idea_ how to respond, just stared blankly at his face and the certainty there and tried to smile when Henry waved goodbye, grinning when Granny handed him something that might have actually been a bag of onion rings.

Complicated. It was complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thank you guys for sticking with me here. We're coming towards the end of our angst - at least of the relationship-type variety. Emma's stubborn and worried and she super wants to make out with Killian Jones again, which is not quite surprising, but only slightly terrifying for her. You guys had a lot of feelings last chapter, so I hope you continue to have feelings. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down or just want to yell. Also I'm still taking prompts for [The Let’s All Be Good People Prompt-a-Thon & Follower Giveaway](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176674973290/the-lets-all-be-good-people-prompt-a-thon) and writing real-life words with [original characters](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/176776709899/i-wrote-a-book-now-with-more-links-and-paperback) that you can read.


	15. Chapter 15

“Move out.”  
  
Killian didn’t look up, didn’t even bother turning around, just kept staring at the actual piece of poster board he’d made Ariel buy him earlier that afternoon and pointedly ignored Will. Ariel chuckled lightly from her spot on the couch, legs twisted over the back in a position that, until recently, Killian thought was impossible.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Scarlet,” she muttered. “So he’s got some kind of murder board in the middle of your living room. That’s totally normal for a feature writer.”  
  
“He’s acting like some kind of paranoid private investigator,” Will grumbled, slamming the door shut behind him and there was an extra set of footsteps with him.

Killian groaned. He’d brought reinforcements.

“It’s not a murder board,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair. He still hadn’t turned around and Robin was practically cackling at him. “Also, A, if you’re going to be obnoxious about this, then you probably shouldn’t have bought me the poster board or written out all of this stuff. You’re an accomplice now.”  
  
“Jeez, he’s acting like a PI and talking like a cop,” Will laughed, dropping into the only corner of the couch that wasn’t occupied by one of Ariel’s limbs. “Hey, Hook, did you make up with Emma yet?”   
  
That got him to turn around.

Will grinned like he’d won the goddamn lottery – several times.

“We said we weren’t going to mention that,” Robin chastised, crossing his arms and falling into _dad pose_ just behind the couch. “There was a whole plan, Hook. We weren’t going to make fun of how obviously in love you are with your top source.”   
  
Killian felt his mouth drop open, breath rushing out of his lungs so quickly it actually hurt, but that might have just been the twist of anxiety and frustration that had been sitting in the bottom of his stomach since he walked out of Granny’s three days before.

_Because you want me_.

What a melodramatic asshole.

And she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t followed up or texted him or done anything except continue to absolutely ignore him, which was probably for the best because if Emma _did_ talk to him, Killian wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t just going to try and kiss her until neither one of them could stand up.

That felt a little aggressive.

And he had a murder board to figure out.

It wasn’t a murder board. It was a string of coincidences and clues and he couldn’t quite believe he’d used the word _clues_ in an actual sentence, even if that sentence was just in his own head.

Robin and Will kept staring at him like he’d lost his mind. He had. Definitely.

“It’s not a murder board,” he said again, and Robin’s shoulders shook when he laughed.

Will nodded solemnly, lower lip jutted out slightly. “Of course it’s not, Hook. It’s just taking up most of the space in my living room and consuming your every waking moment, but it’s definitely not a murder board. Glad we cleared that up.”  
  
“Ass.”   
  
“Jackass.”   
  
“That is the same thing.”   
  
“I’m always kind of partial to bastard,” Robin added, resting his forearms on Ariel’s legs, still hanging over the back of the couch.

Will hummed. “Simple, offensive, straight to the point. I like it. Hook, you’re a bastard.”  
  
“Pillars of support, both of you,” Killian mumbled, turning back towards the poster board that absolutely was not a murder board. Except that it might have been because he’d always had his suspicions, but he couldn’t _prove it_ and there was no way to know how Gold could have actually been connected to New Orleans.

He wasn’t.

There was no way.

That would have been...insane.

God, he needed to find another word.

“Hook, we came here, out of the goodness of our hearts because A said you were going Close Encounters crazy,” Will said, ignoring Ariel’s not-quite-quiet sound of argument.

“I never used the phrase Close Encounters crazy, Killian,” Ariel promised. “I don’t even know what that means.”  
  
Will looked disappointed. “What, really? Do you not watch movies? Locksley we’ve got to fix this. Have your kids seen that, yet? Can we show Rol that?”   
  
“You can’t show a seven-year-old a movie about an alien invasion,” Killian muttered, eyes back on the board and away from his friends. It all had to connect. Maybe he should talk to David. He was slightly terrified to talk to David. “And you did not come here out of some attempt at goodness, Scarlet. You live here.”   
  
“Exactly,” Will shouted. “Take your murder board out of my living room, Hook.”

“Can we stop using the phrase murder board?” Robin asked. “It’s setting my teeth on edge.”  
  
“Ah, well, God forbid we set Locksley’s teeth on edge. You know what, you can get out of the apartment too. Make Hook come live with you.”   
  
“At least I know he won’t show Rol horribly dated alien movies.”   
  
Killian groaned, running his hand over his face and squeezing his eyes shut and he could almost hear both of his friend’s snap their jaws shut. Ariel mumbled something under her breath. “Jesus Christ,” he sighed, spinning on the spot and all three of them looked vaguely terrified. “No one is dead. At least not recently. And none of this makes any sense and not only is it Close Encounters crazy, but it is Shutter Island crazy and maybe a little bit of the Shining thrown in there too because this all has to connect. It has to.”   
  
His chest heaved by the end of the speech he hadn’t really planned, but Killian just stared at the small audience in front of him as if he was daring any of them to object.

“Did you say the Shining?” Robin asked. “That doesn’t even make any sense, Hook. We’re not in Vermont.”  
  
“Colorado,” Ariel mumbled, earning three wide-eyed stares. “The hotel was in Colorado. Not Vermont. I’m just saying. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. The important thing here is that the NYPD is investigating Gold’s lawyer.”   
  
“What?” Will shouted, moving so quickly he nearly knocked Ariel off the couch. “When did we find that out? How did we find that out?”   
  
“Emma,” Killian said softly, and the wide-eyed stares turned towards him. “That’s what happened at Granny’s. You’re telling me your source didn’t let you know about that, Scarlet?”   
  
Will glared at him. “Bastard.”   
  
“Yes, we’ve covered that.”

“How do you know about my source? And can we not use that word either? It sounds incredibly clinical.”  
  
Robin made a noise that sounded closer to an exasperated growl than the dramatic sigh he was probably going for, stalking around the side of the couch and unceremoniously pushing Ariel up. She fell back against his side, twisting until she was, somehow, on top of both him and Will. “Can we focus, please?” Robin pleaded. “We came here because Hook is, obviously, losing his mind, no matter what movie references we’re making or whoever Scarlet is making out with.”   
  
“Oh, it’s Anna,” Ariel said easily. Will slid onto the floor. “Did we not all know that?”   
  
Killian muttered _ehhhh_ but Robin looked a little stunned and Will was, very clearly, trying to become one with his apartment floor. “How did you know that?” Killian asked, and he really couldn’t just turn his curiosity off.

“I know Belle French.”

“What?!”

Ariel nodded and they definitely should have bought two poster boards. “Yeah, I used to do computer work for the library. She’s super nice. And good at research. Hey, maybe we should get her to come here and help us with the murder board.”  
  
“It’s not a murder board!”   
  
“Focus, god fucking damnit,” Robin hissed. “You both need to stop making out with your sources. It’s unprofessional and Gina’s going to lose the bet and I just don’t want to deal with that. Also, the NYPD is investigating Gold’s lawyer? Like just one?”   
  
“He owns half of Manhattan, did you not think he had a lawyer that was, like, slightly more important than the rest?”   
  
Robin shrugged. “I mean, I guess, it’s just incredibly complicated isn’t it?”   
  
That word. Fuck. Fuck, shit, damn, god damn, fucking _bastard_. Yeah, it was incredibly complicated. And Killian needed to talk to Detective David Nolan – if only to tell him what he maybe knew.

“Are they investigating Gold too?” Robin pressed, and Killian clicked his tongue.

“It’s an open investigation,” he said. “Emma shouldn’t have told me anything, but she said her brother told her that Hans the sleazy lawyer is making trips to New Orleans. Still.”  
  
“And that’s the moniker we’re sticking with then?”   
  
“Focus, Locksley.”

Robin nodded and Killian could practically hear the gears in his head moving as soon as his eyes flitted back towards the poster board. “So, let me get this straight. Gold hires Hans the sleazy lawyer, who makes regular trips to New Orleans, and...what does that say?” He moved, eyes widening when he landed on a very particular connection. “Hans the sleazy lawyer got Helm out of jail?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said. “About six months after he went in. Good behavior and all that, on the record, but A found something else and it’s incredibly sleazy and we’re fairly certain the NYPD doesn’t know that part. Or even if they know that Hans is connected to Gold.”   
  
“They’ve got to know that, right? Does David know Gold offered a spot for Emma on his team?”   
  
“I have no idea.”   
  
“You need to ask better questions, Hook.”

He couldn’t ask anymore questions. If he asked anymore questions he was fairly positive Emma wouldn’t just ignore him, she’d cut off the stories completely and Killian wasn’t quite sure he could actually handle that, fairly certain he was already in too deep and it was way too quick and that didn’t make sense either, but he might have actually been in love with his lead source.   
  
He was definitely in love with his lead source.

God, they’d argued behind the bar of a Midtown Irish pub.

“It’s an open investigation,” Killian repeated. “And we don’t even know how Gold is connected to New Orleans. Just that his lawyer goes there and Helm was part of the Lost Boys for awhile.”  
  
“Don’t forget about Wesselton,” Ariel added, and Robin’s head darted towards hers. “You know that shipping company? The one that’s sponsoring Emma’s team?”

“That’s connected too?” Will asked.

Killian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But Helm worked for them after he got out of New Orleans. And we think Gold might be involved in that too. Oh and they have another warehouse in New Orleans, but that might just be for Gulf of Mexico stuff and, you know, South America. Or whatever.”  
  
“Really hitting the high points of that high school geography class, huh, Hook?”   
  
“I’m trying very hard not to fall into conspiracy theory.”   
  
Will sat up a bit straighter, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and leveling Killian with a look that was nothing short of determined. “Play along for a second then,” he said. “If you went full-on conspiracy, what would would you think was happening?”   
  
“I think it’s Gold,” Killian answered, ignoring Ariel’s wide eyes and Robin’s audible gasp. Will didn’t look surprised. “I think he’s pulling strings and using lawyers and I don’t know how, I can’t figure it out, even with the fucking board, but I never knew who was at the very top of the Lost Boys. I think it was him.”   
  
“You think he came to New Orleans?”   
  
“I don’t know, but it almost makes sense, doesn’t it?”   
  
“It’s your theory Hook, not mine.”   
  
Killian took a deep breath, trying to remember the importance of oxygen and his lips were dry. “There’s more going on here. Emma...she...she knows Helm and this Cassidy guy, the one who’s the captain of Second Star. They played together years ago and there’s got to be a reason Gold would want her on this team. I think…”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I think he’s trying to control it,” Killian said, finally giving voice to the absolutely _insane_ idea that had taken root in the back of his mind as soon as he’d walked away from Emma. “Gold, I mean. I think he’s trying to control the League and the money and I can’t figure out where Wesselton fits into that, but that’s my theory.”   
  
Will chewed thoughtfully on his lip. “A,” he muttered, glancing towards Ariel and her eyes were never going to go back to a normal size. “Did you know that this Wesselton guy nearly went to jail eight years ago? For trying to skirt tariffs?”   
  
“Tariffs,” Ariel repeated. “Like shipping tariffs?”   
  
“Yeah,” Will nodded. Killian ran his hand through his hair, turning back towards the board and his heart sped up and he needed to talk to Emma. He needed to talk to David. None of what they were doing was particularly legal. “Was trying to avoid taxes and money,” Will continued, voice dropping low with the nerves Killian could _feel_ even on the other side of the room. “And...prying eyes. Out of the New Orleans warehouse.”   
  
“Holy shit,” Robin breathed, and that just about summed it up. Killian’s legs felt very weak.

“I didn’t know that,” Ariel muttered. “That’s not...that’s not anywhere. There’s no record of that.”

Will hummed, glancing quickly at Killian who was still a bit stunned he was standing up. “He’s covering his tracks. I mean, if Hook’s theory is right, then Gold is in charge of some huge drug ring in New Orleans, he’s shipping shit all over the country and the world and Wesselton wouldn't want the Feds or whoever is in charge of that to know. So he avoids taxes and tariffs, nearly gets wrecked for it, and Gold gets Hans the sleazy lawyer to step in and make shit disappear. Did Emma say what he was being investigated for?”  
  
“No,” Killian said, rushing over the word like it had offended him and his mind couldn’t quite keep up with all of this. “But I wouldn’t have expected her to. It’s…”   
  
“An open investigation,” Robin finished sharply. “Yeah, we got that Hook.”   
  
“What’s the matter with you?”   
  
Robin stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over Ariel in the process. “You’ve got to stop this. The looking and the investigating and the trying to figure all of this shit out. You’re not a cop, Hook. And they’re clearly already doing their job.”   
  
“I know that.”   
  
“So then why the murder board?”   
  
“Are we back to that?” Killian sighed. Robin started pacing. “It’s not a murder board. No one here is dying. It’s just...if something shitty is happening, then Emma should…”   
  
“No,” Robin interrupted, and the word seemed to echo off the walls. “That’s not how this works. This is a job, Hook. Your job. And you’ve put everything on the line for this, agreed to shitty, idiotic deals with Cora in some misplaced attempt at reclaiming your honor or something. Well, guess what, none of that matters if you’re too focused on conspiracy theories and the girl.”   
  
They stared at each other for a moment – or several lifetimes and it didn’t matter because it was definitely about Emma and Killian hadn’t really realized it until that very moment.

He was going to make sure she won. He was going to make sure that whole goddamn team won. And there went any sense of bias.

“It’s not about theories,” Killian muttered, and Robin scoffed, pacing out what was sure to eventually be a small hole in Will’s floor. “It’s about the possibility of what could happen if those theories are right.”  
  
“You don’t have time for this! The opening round of this tournament is tomorrow.”

“I’m aware of the schedule, Locksley. We’ll be at the opening round and there’ll be a story and a sidebar and everything, but….”  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Will shouted suddenly, leaping off the couch and almost crashing into Robin mid-pace. Killian gaped at him. “Hook, are you fucking serious?”   
  
Killian shook his head slowly. “I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

“You think he killed her.”  
  
His knees, finally, gave out. Killian sank onto the floor, leaning against the wall he was thankful to have behind him and Will stared at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at.

“Oh,” Ariel sighed, shooting a furtive glance towards his arm and the colors just above his wrist and she looked almost close to tears. Robin glared at Killian. “Do they….”  
  
Killian inhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the side of his cheek and everything felt incredibly tight. Ariel wasn’t done. “Does Emma...” she trailed off, and he nodded. “Well, shit.”   
  
“Someone needs to tell me what is going on right now or I’m going to rip Hook’s murder board in half,” Robin announced.

Killian closed his eyes, trying to figure out a way to breathe like an actual human being who wasn’t in love with his lead source and slightly concerned about her safety and the safety of an entire team of professional video game players. Ariel sighed again.

“Killian thinks Gold had something to do with the accident in New Orleans,” she said bluntly. “And he told Emma that Gold was married to…”  
  
“Milah,” Robin mumbled.

Killian felt like he was falling through some kind of emotional void, everything he’d ever been certain of shattering right in front of his face and maybe he could just feel nothing for awhile.

That would be much easier.

That was slightly terrifying.

“Theories,” Killian mumbled, resting his chin on his knee. “I only have theories and I always kind of thought the accident was...more than what it was. But I just figured it was because I was digging up names and they wanted me gone. I didn’t think it had anything to do with Gold. I didn’t even know he was some big-time New York name until after.”

“So then you were only kind of right, Scarlet,” Ariel said, and Will almost smiled.

He dropped down next to Killian, stretching his own legs out and bumping their shoulders familiarly. “You’ve thought this the whole time?”  
  
“Eh,” Killian muttered. “Considered. In rather graphic detail for most of the last six years.”

Will _did_ laugh at that, an anxious, nervous sound that seemed to fit in perfectly with a living room that was decorated with a murder board and a major website editor who seemed determined to glare everyone to death.

“And now?” Ariel prompted.

Killian shrugged. “Now I have absolutely no idea. I still think the accident wasn’t quite an accident, but if Gold is, somehow, pulling all these strings, then maybe it was more than that times two thousand.” He took a deep breath, wincing slightly when his head hit against the wall he was still using as support. “I just...Emma.”  
  
It wasn’t quite an explanation, but, then again, it _was_ an explanation and he should walk uptown and tell her everything.

He’d sound like an absolute lunatic.

Robin’s glare softened slightly, eyes flitting between Will and Killian like he was looking for confirmation from one of them. “You’re serious about this?” he asked. “And her?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian nodded, breathing just a bit easier for the first time in the last three days.

“You need to talk to the brother then. If we all get sued though, I’m totally blaming you.”  
  
“That’s fair, but A did all the dirty work. I just kind of directed.”   
  
“Hey,” Ariel shouted, throwing a pillow at him that Killian barely managed to dodge. It hit Will square in the jaw. “This was all your idea! I’m just really good at breaking through firewalls.”   
  
Robin groaned. “Oh my God, do not tell the brother that.”   
  
“He’s got a name. Detective David Nolan. Sounds impressive, don’t you think? I bet he won’t let anything happen to Killian’s girlfriend.”   
  
Robin and Will laughed loudly at that and Killian rolled his eyes, but something in the back corner of his brain seemed to _spark_ at that – something Emma mentioned in Philadelphia about her brother and Mary Margaret and how they wouldn't give up on her and brought her back even after she’d run.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

And he was going to figure this out.

Even if they all got sued for it.

Ariel pressed a tiny piece of paper into his hand two hours later, a knowing smile on her face and eyes just a bit brighter than usual. “Do it,” she said intently, and it sounded like the command it absolutely was.

It was an address.

_167 East 51st Street_

It was crazy and insane, but the last few months had been all that and more and he didn’t really have time to debate the merits of actually running nearly thirty blocks uptown, but Killian needed to do _something_ and he just hoped Detective David Nolan was on the clock.

He was breathing a bit harder than usual by the time he skidded to a stop just inside the front door of the precinct and the officer at the desk in front of him eyed him warily.

“Can I help you?”  
  
Killian nodded, probably a bit more intently than he should have and he wasn’t doing himself any favors. “I’m looking for a Detective. Nolan. David Nolan.”   
  
The officer narrowed his eyes, glancing down Killian’s entire body like he was looking for weapons or actual signs that he was unhinged as he probably looked. God, he’d absolutely drawn out a murder board in Will’s apartment.

He needed to find his own apartment.

“Killian?”

He spun, balance not quite as even when he still hadn’t completely caught his breath and David Nolan looked just a bit intimidating with an actual shoulder holster like he’d just walked off a _Law & Order _ set. “Hi,” Killian said, and he’d never done well with uniforms.

Liam was cackling somewhere in the afterlife.

And probably trying to move something on Gina’s desk so they could laugh about it together.

He’d definitely come unhinged.

David lowered his eyebrows, crossing his arms tightly and planting his feet in the middle of the lobby. “What are you...are you looking for Em?”  
  
“No, no, I’m actually here for you?”   
  
“Was that a question?”   
  
“It might have been.”   
  
“Weird.”   
  
Killian nodded. “Yeah, it’s been that kind of week.”   
  
David didn’t say anything except a mumbled _huh_ as he rocked back on his heels. “It’s important,” Killian added, and David’s eyebrows nearly flew off his face.

“That so?”  
  
“I think so.”   
  
“Alright,” David said, nodding towards the other side of the room and a set of desks and they were walking before Killian was entirely prepared to be walking again. “Sit,” David continued, kicking towards an empty chair on the side of his desk.

There were piles of paper everywhere, post-it notes with half-scribbled thoughts taking up just about every free inch of space that wasn’t, somehow, occupied by more piles of paper or the few frames set in a line next to his computer monitor.

Killian tried to look – without making it painfully obviously how much he was trying to look – eyes darting across faces and smiles and green eyes that he was fairly certain he’d be able to pick out of any lineup at this point.

She was younger, but the color of her eyes was the same and that seemed like a sign.

“Charleston,” David said suddenly, and Killian’s foot skidded on the floor. He pointed at the photo, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “We went to Charleston. Couple years ago. When Em was playing down there.”  
  
“I’ve never been,” Killian muttered.

“Eh, it’s nice. ‘Ish. Hot. Humid. Not home.”  
  
“Maine?”   
  
David’s eyes widened and then narrowed and Killian got the feeling he was trying to read his mind. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Maine. Em told you that?”   
  
“We do talk, occasionally.”

“And the rest of the time?”

Killian sat up a bit straighter, pressing his back into the rather unforgiving NYPD chair, and tried to remember all the reasons he’d run thirty blocks uptown. “We’re really going to do this? You’re going to go all impressive police officer on me to...what? Intimidate me?”  
  
“Would that work?” David asked.

“Probably not.”  
  
David hummed, crossing his arms again and twisting in his chair until his feet were close enough to Killian’s to actually _stomp_ on them. “There’s something else going on here,” he said. “And I’m not going to let my sister get hurt. Not after everything.”   
  
Killian tried not to let his curiosity show on his face, the questions he could almost _feel_ trying to push their way out of him, but it didn’t really work and David looked like he wanted to be anywhere except the 17th Precinct of the New York Police Department.

“That’s her story,” Killian said softly. David heard. “Whatever...whatever you think is going on here, it’s as much her decision as it is mine.”

“Huh,” David mumbled again. “Maybe I won’t have to kill you now.”  
  
“Can you just make threats like that in a police precinct? And has this murder been premeditated?”

“Eh, considered at best, depending on how much longer Em’s going to sit on my couch and play MarioKart by herself. I’m not the one you need to worry about though. Not really.”  
  
This conversation was not going the way Killian expected. He hadn’t thought about much on his thirty-block sprint except trying to get oxygen to his brain, but he had, at least, a general idea of what he hoped for when he came face to face with David.

This was not it.

“Ruby?” Killian chanced, and David shook his head.

“Mary Margaret.”

“Ah.”  
  
David flashed his eyes back up, glancing towards the photos on his desk with a smile tugging at his mouth again. “She’ll kill you. I’ll just come up with her alibi,” he promised. “But you’re not probably here to discuss that, right?”   
  
“No,” Killian agreed. “Although, well, maybe kind of that. If I haven’t entirely lost my mind already.”   
  
“I don’t follow.”   
  
“I want to talk to you about Hans Norge.”

David didn’t need to rely on Mary Margaret’s murderous tendencies. He was doing a pretty fantastic job on his own. He stood up quickly, chair crashing to the ground and he didn’t even try to pull it back up. He just gaped at Killian, chest heaving and right hand flexing at his side like he was trying to stop himself from drawing his gun.

“How….” he started, but Killian waved his hands through the air, an unspoken sign of surrender he hoped worked.

He had a video game event to cover the next day.

“It’s a very roundabout story,” Killian explained quickly, “but I know you’re investigating Hans and I know, at least one time, why he went to New Orleans.”  
  
David’s shoulders sagged, the force of his exhale fluttering one of the piles of papers on his desk when he sank onto the edge. “When?”   
  
“About six years ago. He went there to work a deal with the DA and get Jefferson Helm out of jail well before his sentence was up.”   
  
“Jefferson Helm?” David screeched. “Like...like that guy Em played with? That Jefferson Helm that knows Neal?”   
  
Killian nodded. “And is playing in the League now with Neal on a team that is being sponsored by Robert Gold. The one that wanted Emma to come play for them.”   
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“What do you mean, what?” David shook his head, eyes wide and mouth half open and Killian’s pulse thudded in his ears. God _fucking_ damn. Complicated. Far too complicated. “You didn’t know that, did you?”   
  
“No,” David bit out, and he was definitely trying not to reach for his gun. “When did that happen?”   
  
“In Philadelphia.”   
  
“You know what? Screw the entire city of Philadelphia.”   
  
“That seems rational.”   
  
David glared at him and Killian’s back was going to be bruised from that chair. Or possibly his eye if David did just haul off and punch him. “But she said no, right? I mean she’s playing with Wail tomorrow, so she said no.”   
  
“You honestly think she’d even consider another answer?”   
  
“No,” David answered immediately. He took another deep breath, tapping his toe in frustration on one particularly dirty floor tile. “Ok, ok, so let me get this straight. Norge, Gold’s personal lawyer, keeps making regular trips to New Orleans where we know, thanks to you, a big-time drug ring was shut down about six years ago and Helm...what? Went to jail for dealing?”   
  
Killian nodded. “Yeah. Gave up a couple of names of higher-level guys to work a deal, but that’s the part I can’t figure. If he gives up name, Gold has to despise him, right? Why would he get him out early?”   
  
“You’re not making any sense.”   
  
“You should talk to my friends. They’ve been telling me the same thing all day.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” David stammered. “You’ve been talking about this with who? Your journalism friends? Don’t you have better things to do?”   
  
He did. He absolutely did, but he was also absolutely and completely terrified that something was going to happen and there was already enough riding on this stupid video game tournament and Killian couldn't let something happen to Emma.

“Back up for a second,” David continued, hardly waiting for Killian to answer his first question. “Are you suggesting that Gold, Robert Gold, who owns most of Manhattan, is secretly a New Orleans drug lord? And sponsoring video game teams?”  
  
Killian deflated a bit at that. “Well, it sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“So that’s what you’re saying then?” David looked on the verge of hysterics. He shook his head, rubbing his fingers on the side of his jaw and staring at Killian like a mental patient. “How did you find out about Helm? That’s not on the record as you’d say.”  
  
“I know.”

“Not an answer.”  
  
“I am well aware of that,” Killian groaned, ignoring the flash of frustration on David’s face. “I’m also trying to tell you that we’ve found connections here that don’t make any sense. I’m not the police. I can’t do anything, but you can. You can make it all stick.”   
  
David stared at him for a moment, eyes boring into Killian’s soul or something less absurd. He twisted his mouth, pressing his teeth into his lower lip in a move that was almost _painfully Emma_ and Killian’s whole body felt like it lurched right out of the chair at even the idea of that.

“Why?” David asked.

Killian blinked. “Why what?”  
  
“You’ve clearly spent a lot of time on this, done some, what I’m assuming, is less-than-legal research and, now, the day before the opening round of a League tournament that could change the life of my sister and everyone who’s important to her, you march into my precinct like the world is about to end. So, I’ll ask again, I want to know why?”   
  
Killian’s stomach flipped and several other internal organs seemed to evaporate or expand and none of it was particularly comfortable under the serious stare of Detective David Nolan and his shoulder holster.

And for half a second, he considered leaving. He thought about shaking his head and cursing Detective David Nolan to several different hells and just doing his job, but then Killian glanced at the frame on the edge of the desk and he was so absolutely and completely in love with her, there was nothing left to do except talk.

Because of Emma.

Because he came home.

“It’s a very long story,” Killian warned.

David shrugged. “I’ve got some time.”

Killian told him the whole goddamn thing. And David’s eyes widened more than once – pen scraping furiously across a notepad and maybe Killian should have offered up his recorder, but that seemed like a step too far and David actually stopped writing when they got to the accident.

Killian just kept talking.

Milah and hospitals and how he’d always _thought_ but never even began to imagine and it didn’t make any sense, right? None of it made any sense. It couldn't just all be connected like that.

He just wanted to write.

He just wanted to tell good stories.

There was more.

Killian told David about Second Star and the Lost Boys and the pen stopped then too, falling to the desk with an audible _clang_ as they both stared at each other in disbelief. He kept talking. He left Ariel’s name out of it, glossing over firewalls, broken or otherwise, and David didn’t ask any follow-ups, just kept listening until Killian’s voice went hoarse.

David sighed when Killian, finally, stopped talking, rolling his shoulders and sticking the pen – which was probably out of ink at this point – behind his ear. “That is...insane,” he muttered. “That’s...you know this is absolutely insane, right?”

“Yeah,” Killian nodded and he’d kill, right there in the middle of the precinct, for water. Or rum. Or shitty strawberry-flavored vodka.

God, he should call Emma.

“None of this makes any sense,” David continued. “But it also makes a shit ton of sense? Does that make sense?”  
  
“A little bit.”   
  
“Ah, that’s a start, I guess. You tell Emma about any of this?”   
  
Killian shook his head. “No, no, this is...you’re the police officer, right? Seems more your field.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be writing video game stories, so diving into the deep end of multi-state crime doesn’t really make a ton of sense either.” He sighed again, resting his forehead on his hand and Killian was concerned one of their skulls was actually going to crack open from trying to make sense of any of this. “She shouldn’t have told you about Hans, but I’m glad she did.”   
  
“She wanted to know if I knew him in New Orleans.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s the first thing she asked me when I told her.”   
  
That caught Killian short and this was, easily, the most uncomfortable chair in the entire world. His whole back was going to be bruised for days. “Emma asked that?” Killian muttered, David’s eyebrows quirking at the breathless sound of the question.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Immediately. Suddenly.”  
  
“She’s right, you know, subtlety is not exactly your strength.”   
  
“Ah, well, I’ve already threatened you with murder from both me and my wife and you were pretty right about Ruby. I’d add Elsa to that list too at this point, honestly. I won’t push one way or another, but I know my sister and, now, I know you and she’s been happier, sometimes, in these last few months than I can remember seeing her in...forever.”

“And other times?”  
  
“Other times I really have considered several different ways to kill you. Complicated, huh?”   
  
“That word,” Killian groaned, and David laughed softly. “I’m going to go ahead and just ask my follow up now, ok?”   
  
“You don’t really need to preface it, I’m familiar with the fifth amendment.”   
  
Killian grinned, moving to the edge of the chair and tugging lightly on his hair. “You said you told Emma about Hans. Why would you do that? It’s an open investigation.”

“It’s absolutely against the rules if that’s what you’re suggesting,” David mumbled. Killian shrugged. “Again, it’s not my place at all, but, aside from Mary Margaret, Emma is the most important person in my life. Bar none. And the reason it stays that way is because we are honest with each other. Sometimes frustratingly so. I’m...well it’s overprotective and antiquated, but I’m always going to do whatever I can to make sure she stays as happy as she’s been in the last few months. Got it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian said softly, glad his hand was already entrenched in his hair so he didn’t have to actually move again. “I do.”

He didn’t run back downtown, David’s words echoing in his head and those photos appearing in front of his eyes every single time he blinked and he barely got any sleep that night, groaning loudly when his alarm went off in Will’s living room.

“Move out,” Will shouted again, throwing a pillow at his own bedroom door.

It took far longer than it should have to get to the Playstation Theatre, traffic on a Saturday morning in the city seemingly endless just a few weeks before Thanksgiving and Radio City was probably already decorated for the Christmas Spectacular.

The crowd outside the Theatre was even larger than it had been during the qualifier with actual fans and more themed t-shirts and League reps all looking a little anxious as to how any of this was going to go. The giant screen on the side of the building touted the teams and the bracket and _the best in the world_ and Killian had brought no less than seventeen pens.

“Ready, Hook?” Will asked, barely waiting for a response before he swung open the door and stepped into the video game mob in front of them.

Killian saw her before he heard her – and he refused to linger on _that_ point for too long, particularly when he wasn’t quite sure what to do as soon as Emma saw him. He’d brought coffee, some vague hope that caffeine would somehow make any of this right and there was another container of stolen cinnamon in his jacket.

Emma did not look like she cared about any of that.

She looked like a goddamn hurricane, eyes darker than he’d seen them before and hair whipping in the early November _gusts_ that always seemed to exist on cross streets and Killian couldn't back up. There were too many people on the sidewalk.

“Swan,” he started only to remember Granny’s and there was almost no green in the glare bearing down on him. “Emma, love, just let me explain.”  
  
“What?” she snarled. “Explain what? How you told _my brother_ that Gold tried to bring me to his team in Philadelphia and that Jeff was on a team with Neal! You want to explain that? Fine, go ahead. I’m anxious to hear.”   
  
Killian took a deep breath, wincing when at least two different teams and half a dozen tourists collided with several different sides of his body in the span of two seconds. Times Square was the worst place in the world.

He should have cursed David there.

“Can we do this somewhere else?” Killian asked. “Anywhere else? I’m going to get run over by tourists. I brought coffee.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, lip tugged tightly in between her teeth. “I don’t want apology coffee.”  
  
“That’s not what this is. Almost. It’s more, like, explanation coffee. There’s cinnamon in my jacket pocket too.”   
  
She let go of her lip. “You’ve got to stop this crime spree around the city.”   
  
“More determined than crime spree. There’s hardly any point to explanation coffee-hot chocolate hybrids if it’s not going to be perfect.”

Emma eyed him for a moment – debating something he hoped he came out on the right side of – and the air didn’t smell quite so much like garbage and disappointment when she held her hand out expectantly. “I accept your explanation coffee on the one condition that you explain why the hell you showed up at the precinct yesterday.”  
  
“That’s the point of the explanation, love,” Killian promised, and he couldn’t quite get the cinnamon out of his pocket while he was still holding his own coffee. He tried to ignore the flush he could feel in his cheeks, creeping up his spine and the back of his neck and maybe if he just stood there forever those same tourists from before would come back and just...trample him.

Or something.

“Which one?” Emma asked, and Killian’s jerked his head up sharply.

“What?”  
  
“Which pocket?” He narrowed his eyes, still not entirely understanding what she was asking and Emma sighed dramatically, stepping into his space and stuffing her hand into his right pocket. “Ah, the other one then,” she laughed when she came up short of a cinnamon container.

Killian shook his head. “No, no, it’s um…” He tried to point to the pocket inside his coat and Emma actually smiled at him. Maybe he’d already been trampled. As far as Times Square experiences went, this was one of his best.

“Here, God, stop moving,” Emma muttered, tugging on the front of his jacket and her hands were freezing. He should buy her gloves. Or tell someone else to buy her gloves. That seemed like some kind of line.

They couldn't do that. Again. They couldn’t do that again.

Emma let out a sound that was clearly celebratory, eyes flashing back up towards him and she didn’t move quickly enough or maybe he moved too quickly and maybe they just moved at the same time.

That was probably more romantic.

The semantics of it felt unimportant while kissing her. 

She hadn’t actually drank any of the coffee, explanation or otherwise, and she tasted a bit like toothpaste when his lips crashed against hers. He never quite knew how neither one of them managed not to spill their coffees all over the tourists or the League reps or how no one actually saw them, but Killian would take small miracles when they appeared before him.

And Emma Swan was nothing short of several small miracles. All at the same time.

He tried to breathe her in, pull her even closer against him and his left arm wrapped all the way around her waist while she pushed up on her toes and dragged in her fingers through his hair.

Killian made some kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat – want and need and how much he’d absolutely fucking _missed her_ all turning into one vaguely ridiculous sound – and he could feel Emma’s smile against him.

“Complicated,” Emma mumbled. Killian tried to take a deep breath, resting his forehead on hers and there went that line.

Again.

They were absolutely horrible at this.

“Decidedly,” he agreed. “And don’t forget insane. If we’re going to go with the whole mantra, we’ve got to stick to the script, love.”  
  
“I’d still be yelling then.”   
  
“Maybe we don’t do that then. And I wasn’t trying to give up secrets to your brother, Swan. I just…” He took a deep breath and, well, no time like the present. In the middle of Times Square. With the Overwatch theme song pumping out from the speakers that were, for some reason, on the outside of the Theatre.

“Seems like a simple question. Or story.”  
  
“It’s not, Swan. I promise.”   
  
“Talk fast then.”   
  
Killian sighed, gulping down coffee that wasn’t all that hot anymore, despite the little green, plastic thing they’d handed him at the counter. “I think Gold is doing something,” he said, Emma’s eyes widening quickly. “With the League and Hans the sleazy lawyer and I can’t figure any of it out without your brother’s help, but I didn’t know that he was investigating Hans the sleazy lawyer until you mentioned it and then A gave me the precinct address during their intervention yesterday and here we are.”

She didn’t look confused – that wasn’t the right word. She looked a little bit closer to stunned and maybe certain Killian had gone crazy. “They all think I’ve fallen into some kind of conspiracy theory spiral,” he explained. “Well, maybe just Locksley. He’s just pissed about ethics.”  
  
“Ethics?” Emma asked, and this conversation was not going well. Killian winced, nodding towards the cinnamon container in her hand and her eyes, somehow, got even wider. “Right,” she sighed. “So, ok, um….”   
  
“Gold. Ariel and I have been looking things up since Philadelphia and I told you about him and Milah, but there’s more to it. I’m just not sure it makes any sense.”   
  
“How could there possibly be more to it?”   
  
“There’s a lot, actually. You know what the name of the ring in New Orleans was called?” Emma shrugged. “The Lost Boys.”   
  
She nearly dropped her coffee on his shoe. “Oh my God,” Emma whispered. “And you think...they’re connected? How? I thought your stories fixed all of that. Got rid of it or something.”   
  
“It’s a drug ring, Swan, a very powerful one. I’m not sure it ever truly disappears and I’m not even sure any of this is more than just swinging in the dark, but there are too many coincidences and connections.”

“You think they’re just lurking in shadows or something?”  
  
“I think Anna told Scarlet that Wesselton had been previously investigated for trying to dodge the United States government.”   
  
“What?” Emma balked. “When?”

“Years ago. In New Orleans.”  
  
“Shit. Does Elsa know that? And, wait, wait, Anna told Scarlet?”   
  
Killian nodded. “Oh, that’s absolutely happening. And, no, I don’t think Elsa does know that and I think there’s more to _that_ story as well, but I haven’t had time to expand my investigation quite that far yet.”

Emma hummed in agreement, gaze just a bit more cautious than it had been before. “There might be another part,” she muttered, and Killian tried very hard not to groan.

It didn’t work.

He wished he’d brought the board with him.

“I think David was trying to prove to Mary Margaret how fine it would be, that this Hans guy wasn’t some dangerous criminal at large by proving that his clients were...I don’t know, harmless, I guess.”  
  
“And how does that fit into the rest of it?”   
  
“Because one of those clients is, apparently, on the board of _The Daily Caller_.”

Killian dropped his coffee, jumping out of the way when the cup crashed to the sidewalk and the tourists yelped at the puddle of espresso next to him. Emma took a step closer to him. “You’re kidding me?” he asked, and it sounded a bit like he was begging her.

Emma shook her head, lips quirked down and disappointment radiating off her. “Henry and I should probably discuss our eavesdropping techniques when I see him again. Did he hand in that paper?”  
  
“Yeah, it was good.”   
  
“You read it?”   
  
“For grammar. Locksley and Gina are always swamped with work and new board members I guess. Oh shit, I bet that’s what that meeting was.”   
  
“The third quarter one?” Emma asked, and Killian’s whole body stuttered at that. She smiled softly, hand finding its way to his chest and shouting _I love you_ in the middle of Times Square was the last thing he should be thinking about.   
  
He was.

“Did you happen to hear a name while you were snooping, love?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh, snooping makes it sound so juvenile. And yes, Zauberer. Ring any bells?”  
  
“No,” Killian sighed, head falling forward slightly until it was threatening to rest on Emma’s forehead again. He moved his hands, _both hands_ , tracing over her sides and the curve of her hips. She didn’t try and move. “I guess it’s time to get Ariel back on the case.”   
  
“That’s the lamest thing you’ve ever said.”   
  
“Ever?”   
  
“Easily.” Emma’s breathing hitched slightly, and she took a step back, something Killian probably shouldn’t have regretted as much as he did, but they were all over the place again and off the rails and probably just hurtling through space, but she didn’t blink when she looked up at him.

“Are you ok, love?” Killian asked, and she nodded before he’d even finished asking the question.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just, well, I guess I was wondering. Why did you go talk to David? If you were researching all this stuff with Ariel and Locksley thinks you’re going Cuckoo’s Nest crazy, then why even tell David? It can’t be very legal what you’ve been doing.”

“It’s not.”  
  
“Then why?”   
  
Killian considered his options, careful to keep from stepping in the puddle of espresso that kept inching closer to his right foot. That felt like a sign. It was lurking. He didn’t appreciate it.

Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth, eyebrows lifted in expectation of an answer and he absolutely did not have one that would not send her running towards 9th Ave.

“We were going to be honest with each other right?” Emma asked softly, the words jumbled when she didn’t actually let go of her lip.

“We are,” Killian promised. “Definitively.”  
  
“Then….you can ask two follow-ups if you want.”   
  
He really should work on expanding his vocabulary because he couldn’t come up with a single world to describe the look on Emma’s face or the way it seemed to inch into every bit of him, sinking into his very center and settling into that tiny, void of _want_ and _hope_ that had taken up residence in his stomach since he’d been ten years old.

He loved her a lot.

That was probably too honest.

“I don’t need the follow-ups, love,” Killian muttered, taking a step forward and away from the espresso and Emma didn’t flinch when a hand that wasn’t really a hand landed on her hip. “If any of this is even remotely true, if Gold is anywhere near any of this in a more than just the money way, then your brother needed to know. Forget the legality of it. He can do whatever he wants with any of that.”  
He tried to smile and it didn’t really work, the muscles in his face protesting at the movement, but neither one of them moved. “I just wanted to help, I guess. It could be the biggest conspiracy theory in the entire world and I could be completely wrong about all of it, but if it’s not then, well, I couldn't take that risk.”   
  
“Risk?” Emma repeated quietly. Killian nodded.

“To you,” he breathed, and it felt like admitting to _everything_ and, at least, eighteen cabs honked their horn at the same time.

Times Square was the absolute worst.

“Oh,” Emma muttered.

She actually put her coffee on the ground before she moved again. And he nearly stumbled backwards when she kissed him, arms slung around his neck and her whole body flush against his. Killian made some kind of noise when he felt her tongue on his lip and he bent his knees before he even considered his next move, tugging Emma up and only one of her feet was still on the sidewalk.   
  
They could have stayed there for several days or weeks or the rest of their entire goddamn lives and Killian wouldn’t have cared, wouldn’t have even tried to move or done anything except try and document every single sound Emma made.

The air around them still smelled like garbage and a bit like the espresso that had probably sunk into the actual sidewalk, but, eventually, they did have to breath and Killian couldn't stop himself from smiling when Emma buried her head against his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her hair.

And blinked several times when he heard her mumble _I’m sorry_ against his jacket.

“What?” he asked, leaning back until he could see her eyes and the cautious look in her gaze.

Emma grimaced, squeezing one eye shut and Killian was dimly aware of Elsa calling for them a few feet away. They needed to stop breaking away from the group. “I said that I was sorry,” Emma muttered. “A blanket sort of apology. For running mostly and also being kind of an asshole about you talking to David and risking legality or however that works.”  
  
“I don’t think your brother is going to investigate me or A when he’s got so much else to worry about, Swan.”   
  
“No, no, I know, but, well, old habits and something about murdering them brutally. I’m much better at sprinting the opposite direction than actually dealing with anything and you’re some kind of absolute now with the story and the publicity and, now, with knowing what David’s investigating and it all just kind of hit me and I haven’t had that in a long time.”   
  
“I don’t understand, love.”   
  
She licked her lips before she answered and he finally figured out the word he was looking for – hope. “Something...someone to depend on. Who wasn’t David or M’s or Ruby. And this team is so important and this League is so important and I, well, I mean we broke all those rules already. And, well, at the risk of plagiarizing you, maybe I can’t get you out of my head either.”

He didn’t care about the garbage smell. Or the tourists. Or the sea of cabs behind him and next to him.

He just cared about what happened next.

He kissed her.

Elsa was absolutely calling for them again, but Emma’s hands had found the front of his shirt again and he was fairly positive one of her fingers had curled into his belt loop again and he could barely even remember where he was when she did that and neither one of them seemed all that predisposed to movement.

And, all things considered, he probably should have been paying more attention, been more aware of his surroundings or more adept at hearing what was coming, but he’d been too focused on Emma and Killian didn’t hear the voice a few feet away from him until they’d repeated themselves more than once.

“Ah, well, this makes things interesting, doesn’t it?”

Killian wasn’t sure how he knew, but everything in his body – every nerve ending and thought and anything that made him some kind of cognizant member of society _knew it_ even before he turned around.

He didn’t move his arm away from Emma.

And Robert Gold smiled at them in the middle of goddamn fucking Times Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heloooooo cliffhanger. And the end of relationship angst! For realz this time. We are all in on being very together for the rest of the story and any angst in AngstFest2k17 will be faced as some kind of joint partnership of making out in public places. As always thank you guys for sticking with this mess of words and I can't tell you how much I appreciate every click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> Come flail (and maybe yell juuuuust a bit less) on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) and just a reminder that next Tuesday will be our last update for a little while because I'm going to eat a ton of churros at Disney World. Also still hyping that original [story](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/tagged/out-of-the-park) with original characters


	16. Chapter 16

Primary fire. Secondary fire. Reload. Shoot. Shoot. _Shoot_. Attack.

She was still holding the cinnamon, fingers close to cramping up around the plastic bottle in her hand and Killian hadn’t moved a single inch.

Emma wasn’t convinced he was still breathing.

A tourist bumped into them, mumbled apologies barely audible over the din of the crowd and the force of Robert Gold’s stare and that must have been who that was because nothing else made sense. That didn’t make much sense either, but Emma couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around anything – except the feel of Killian’s left arm around her waist.

“Robert Gold,” the man said, holding out a hand and keeping the other rested on the top of the cane he had pushed in between bits of sidewalk and the general _garbage_ that just seemed to float through the air in Times Square. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a very long time Ms. Swan. It’s a pleasure”  
  
Emma blinked.

And Killian’s arm tightened.

“What?” she asked, and maybe she should have expected it. Gold had, after all, wanted her on his team, but that was a month ago and now they were swimming in the deep end of theories and police investigations and Emma assumed this was going to be some sort of standoff 44th Street that absolutely did not include her.

Gold smiled, slow and menacing, like the move was inching across his face and maybe slinking through Emma’s veins and it felt as disgusting as the few napkins that were inexplicably hitting up against her ankle.

He was old – far older than she expected him to be, but, she supposed, it took a bit of time to build an empire in the middle of Manhattan and maybe Robert Gold wasn’t actually diving into piles of coins, but he was, certainly dressing the part.

His jacket was open, a dark grey tie underneath and he was definitely wearing a suit jacket as well, which seemed a little absurd at a _video game tournament_ , but that just appeared to be the way the world worked now.

It was cold.

Gold nodded, that smile still plastered on his face and it all felt kind of ridiculous. Elsa and Anna were yelling for them at the end of the block. “Of course,” he said, voice low and cold, like that was a thing that voices could be. Killian absolutely wasn’t breathing. “I’ve been very interested in your talents for quite some time, Ms. Swan.”  
  
“Emma’s fine,” she said. That probably wasn’t the right response. Gold’s smile widened.

“I was very disappointed to hear that you weren’t interested in coming aboard on Second Star. You know we’ve worked out a very profitable deal with the League in the last few weeks.”  
  
She tried not to let her curiosity show on her face, but that didn’t work – Gold’s eyes looking almost triumphant as soon as the words were out of his mouth and Emma needed to work on controlling...everything.

She’d lost control of absolutely everything. And she didn’t particularly enjoy it.

“How’d you do that?” Emma asked, and Killian, finally, moved. He stood up straighter next to her, prosthetic moving across her back and Gold’s eyes flickered towards the movement, the smile not quite as forced and just a bit more sinister.

It sent a chill down her spine that had absolutely nothing to do with that goddamn wind.

“Ms. Akers is an old friend of mine,” Gold said easily, and Emma rolled her eyes. “She thought it would be a good idea to showcase one of the top teams.”

“Of course she is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Ms. Swan.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
Gold hummed, pursing his lips and nodding slowly. “Ah, well, then tell me something, Emma. Why wouldn’t you agree to join Second Star? As I say, we have a streaming partnership with the League, weekly updates, regular promotions, plenty of room for growth. A good chance to make a bit of cash, more than enough to really _settle_ , if you understand what I mean.”  
  
Emma’s whole body stiffened, breath catching loudly in her throat and...no. That was impossible. That was _insane_.

That couldn’t happen.

Not again.

He couldn't know.

_Enough to really settle_.

The words pulled her back and she was seventeen and terrified and hopeful and every emotion she could put a name to, certain she’d finally found _it_ in some sort of deeply emotional, life-altering way and Neal had promised her the money from fixing games would let them settle.

They’d stop when they had enough.

They’d stop when they could.

They’d stop.

Of course they didn’t, or Emma did and Neal did...whatever someone who set up their teenage girlfriend did after that kind of thing and Robert Gold knew. Emma wasn’t naive enough to imagine that there weren’t still betting circles and less-than-legal sections of the internet that were interested in making just a bit of money on the brand-new Overwatch League, but she couldn't imagine a situation where Robert Gold was interested in any of it.

Or knew exactly what Neal Cassidy had told her when she was seventeen to get her to believe in any of it.

Emma shook her head dumbly, the feel of Killian’s confusion and concern sinking into the back of her head and the spot just underneath his hand where he hadn’t moved it from her yet. Gold laughed under his breath, rocking back on his heels and stabbing the end of his cane in yet another floating napkin.

“Was that an answer, Emma?” Gold asked, leaning towards her with something that looked like a glint in his eye.

He knew.

Primary fire. Primary fire. Attack. _V. V. V._  The imaginary mouse in Emma’s head snapped audibly, the plastic cracking under her fingers and she’d even lost control of her own coping devices. That hardly seemed fair.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, and she realized, suddenly, she hadn’t actually been breathing. He took a step in front of her, moving in between her and Gold and she couldn't quite read the look on his face, something that felt a bit like panic and bordering close to desperation.

Or determination.

She was clearly going insane from oxygen deprivation.

Killian smiled, one side of his mouth ticking up and Emma nodded, not sure he’d actually asked a question. He brushed his thumb across the curve of her jaw, left arm still wrapped around her tightly and _fucking gazillionaire_ Robert Gold was still standing behind them.

“I’m fine,” Emma mumbled, not able to make even those two words sound like the complete truth and Killian lifted his eyebrows in silent challenge. “Really. Fine. We’ve got to go play.”  
  
“C’mon, love,” he said softly, slinging his arm around her shoulder and twisting back towards the Theatre entrance. Gold moved his cane.

Killian widened his eyes – the look on his face morphing into _fury_ far quicker than Emma expected. They had to go play video games.

Video games.

“Ah, I see you’ve moved on then, Mr. Jones,” Gold drawled, his cane blocking them and the tourists were starting to take notice. They seemed to be developing a bit of a habit at that.

“You need to move,” Killian hissed. He didn’t look at Gold, didn’t take his eyes away from the ridiculous cane or the sunlight reflecting off the top of what have been _actual_ gold and Emma could almost hear the nervous energy of his thoughts.

Or that might have been her.

Gold grinned, different than it had been before - menacing and almost _reptilian_ and that didn’t make sense, but it felt like he was trying to show his teeth without actually opening his mouth and Emma could feel Killian’s chest moving against her, like he’d just run the entire length of Manhattan in a few minutes.

“Neither a confirmation nor a denial, Mr. Jones,” Gold continued. “Not very journalistic of you.”  
  
Killian scoffed. “I’m off the clock. And I’m not usually the one answering questions. Seems more your avenue, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Eh, from time to time. There is, after all, quite an interest in my business endeavors. Which, coincidentally, brings us back to Ms. Swan here and her denial of my deal.”  
  
“A deal,” Killian repeated skeptically. Gold nodded, pulling his cane back to his side and standing to his full height. It wasn’t much, but it might have been the jacket or the tie or even the idea that he was a person who not only owned, but wore a pocket square every day, and Robert Gold was, quite clearly, not someone to be trifled with.

But Emma was mad and Killian couldn’t seem to catch his breath and she’d never been very impressed by illusions of power.

Gold couldn’t do anything.

He didn’t know anything.

She was going to keep telling herself that until she believed it.

“I’m not interested in your deal,” Emma said sharply, drawing both Gold and Killian’s attention. She rolled her shoulders back, pressing her feet into the sidewalk and Elsa was walking towards them now, her quiet pleas to the tourists to _just get out of the way_ barely making their way down the block. “Or you, for that matter. I have a team and I don’t care about who you know or who you’re friends with. None of that is going to make a difference. We’ve got our own sponsor and we’re far better at playing the game than anyone on your roster.”  
  
Gold quirked an eyebrow, the smile on his face almost looking impressed. “Is that so, my dear? You think you have your own sponsor?”  
  
“Of course we do.”  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
“Oh my God, this is exhausting,” Emma sighed. She was still holding cinnamon, only aware of just how white her knuckles had gone when Killian tried to pry her fingers away from the container.

“I’ve got it, love,” he said softly. “Let go.”

He stuffed the container back in his pocket, Gold’s expression unreadable when he shifted slightly on his feet and Elsa wasn’t alone when she skidded to a stop next to them. Will was half a step behind her, a worried look on his face and eyebrows furrowed and that might have been because of the cameras that hit up against his thighs when he stopped walking, but Emma was fairly positive it was because of goddamn, fucking Robert Gold.

“Hook,” Will said sharply, and Killian glared at him. Gold chuckled lightly, resting both hands on the top of his cane.

This was absurd.

“Mr. Scarlet,” he said, nodding in Will’s direction. Will bristled at the name and the quasi introduction, taking a step closer to Elsa and Emma rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to just _flop_ against Killian’s side.

God, they needed to talk about that too.

They needed to talk.

She had to go play video games.

“Ah and Ms. Magisno,” Gold continued. “A pleasure as always. Is your sister here as well?”

Elsa’s eyes widened, tongue pressed on the inside of her cheek and Emma saw her shoulders move when she took a deep breath. “My sister isn’t any of your concern, Mr. Gold.”  
  
Gold nodded in agreement, lower lip jutted out slightly. Emma was going to snap that goddamn cane over her knee. That was far more violent than she wanted to be.

_Primary fire._

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Gold smiled, something that sounded like actual garbage dripping off the words as he leaned forward again, pressing onto his toes and the edge of the cane and the bottom of his jacket fluttered slightly in the breeze. “I’m so glad that you two were able to work out your differences then.”

Emma jerked her head towards Elsa, a muscle in her temple jumping at Gold’s words. She hadn’t moved her tongue yet, the slight jut of her cheek showing as much tension as the usually calm and collected Elsa had displayed since she’d walked into Granny’s months ago.

“There were never any differences,” Elsa said calmly. “Simply a misunderstanding. I’m sure you can understand why.”  
  
He closed his eyes lightly when he nodded again, the sarcastic movement feeling like a slap across Emma’s face – and she wasn’t even involved in the conversation anymore. She moved a step closer to Killian until her hip bumped against his and his left hand traced across the back of her spine, a flash of warmth working its way through the leather of her jacket.

They were going to get kicked out of the entire tournament just for being late.

God, Walsh would never let her live that down.

“Alright, alright, enough,” Emma shouted, and Killian snapped his head towards her, eyes wide and worried and she just shook her head. “Enough. This is...ridiculous. Don’t you have a team to go pay for or something? We’ve got nothing else to say to you.”  
  
“You still didn’t entirely answer my question, Emma,” Gold said, seemingly unperturbed by her sudden outburst in the middle of the block.

She could actually hear the tourists taking photos of them now.

Emma groaned. “I absolutely was not paying attention.”

“You really think you’re in control here?” Gold asked softly, but with an edge that made Emma’s blood run cold. “That he,” he nodded in Killian’s direction, sneering when he noticed the arm still wrapped around her waist, “is going to be able to do anything to support your team? That’s not how this works. That’s not how he works. Has he told you the truth about New Orleans? The actual truth?”  
  
“Of course,” Emma snapped, but Gold didn’t look convinced. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about that. This is about video games!”

“And have you?”  
  
“Have I what?”

“Settled down,” Gold hissed, close enough that Emma could feel his breath on her face and the goosebumps that exploded down both of her arms at the words. “I’ve heard you were always quite interested in something like that. I can promise you just that, Ms. Swan. The money and the certainty and all of it. You just have to agree to walk.”  
  
The whole block was staring at her. Or it felt like that. She could feel Will and Elsa’s stare and Killian’s hand was moving again, tracing out nonsensical patterns up her spine and between her shoulder blades and Emma narrowed her eyes, trying to find the lie in Gold’s words.

She couldn’t.

God damnit.

“As we’ve already discussed, Mr. Gold, I have a team,” she said, taking her time on each syllable, careful not to trip over the words or the meaning or what she wanted with every single bit of her. “I don’t need anything else.”

“Interesting,” Gold repeated. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. You could have done well with Second Star, but Jefferson did seem fairly certain that you wouldn’t change your mind. Of course there were...some of us who hoped for a different outcome this time.”  
  
“We’re going to win. Tell the rest of them that too.”

Gold laughed – loud and disbelieving and Emma pressed her teeth together, jaw locking into place when the sound crept into the back of her mind. “Of course you are, my dear,” he chuckled. “But I wouldn't bet on it.  
  
He nodded again and that couldn’t have been good for his neck, but he was gone a moment later, tourists practically jumping out of the way as he moved through the crowd and back towards a waiting town car and what appeared to be a small platoon of security guards.

“Holy shit,” Will breathed, and Emma actually laughed, every emotion twisting into something that might have just been hysterics.

Killian stared at her, mouth parted slightly and tongue pressed against the corner of his lips. His eyes darted towards Elsa, questions practically broadcast through the air above Emma’s head. Elsa made a noise – a contradiction or an argument and Will cursed a few more times.

Emma’s mind still couldn't quite keep up with any of this.

She tried to make a list in her head, to piece together a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was trying to figure out and Gold’s words still echoed in her head.

_Enough to really settle_.

Enough to stop running.

Enough to come home.

“Swan,” Killian said, and she hadn’t realized her head had fallen against his chest until he rolled his shoulder slightly, trying to get her to stand up like an actual adult human being. “Emma are you alright, love?”  
  
“Fine,” she answered quickly. He lifted his eyebrows and even Will sounded unconvinced, practically choking on the garbage air they were all being forced to breathe the longer they stood on that corner.

“It doesn’t quite look like that.”  
  
“Rude.” Killian smirked at her, bringing his hand back up towards her chin and pushing his fingers into her hair. “Maybe not quite fine,” Emma admitted.

“Yeah, I kind of figured. What did he mean? He seemed very certain of the questions he was asking you.”  
  
“Just a journalism tactic he picked up?”

“He’s not writing a story, Swan.”  
  
“Are you interviewing me right now?” Emma asked, ready for Killian’s eye roll and the way his lips turned down at her poor attempt at _harsh_. “Because I don’t think we really have time for that. And, you know, if we’re going to start asking questions, I’ve got a few of my own.”  
  
She turned, glancing over her shoulder at a decidedly paler than normal Elsa who had her arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was actually trying to hold herself together in the middle of Midtown. “Are you alright, Els?” Emma pressed.

Will took another step closer to Elsa and, well, that was weird. Emma wasn’t quite prepared for the entire Mills Media contingent to play knight in shining armor for Widow’s Wail. “I can’t believe he brought that up,” Elsa muttered distractedly. “That is...do you think he came just for that reason?”  
  
“I have no idea what’s happening.”  
  
“God, as soon as I saw the car, I knew it was him. The bastard.”  
  
Emma blinked, startled by the _acid_ in Elsa’s voice and even Killian looked a little stunned. Will looked just a few steps short of irate.

“What is going on?” Emma pleaded, jerking her head towards her teammate and her photographer and, maybe, her boyfriend. Had they decided that? No. They just kept making out in decidedly public places and letting Manhattan bajillionaires see them and, of course, those bajillionaires were previously married to her maybe-boyfriends dead girlfriend and Gold _knew_ what Neal had promised Emma.

He told her she wasn’t in control. He told her to _bet_ on it.

Like this was goddamn High School Musical.

No tact at all.

“Ok, wait, wait,” Killian said, waving his right hand in the space between Emma and Elsa. Will narrowed his eyes, nodding deftly and they were both very good at communicating nonverbally. They might be able to put Mary Margaret and Emma to shame.

“Stop telepathing,” Emma growled, earning a quiet laugh out of Killian and she felt him press his lips to the top of her head. Maybe boyfriend was right, then.

That couldn’t have been very unbiased for the features.

“I’m glad Hook’s making out with his lead source, Emma,” Will said, ignoring Killian’s quiet _oh my God_ under his breath. “This is good. It makes all this Gold shit a bit easier to deal with when I know love conquers all and everything.”

“You’re the most frustrating human on the planet, you know that?”  
  
“Ah, wait until you’re dealing with Hook on deadline and then talk to me.”  
  
“Scarlet,” Killian warned, but Will just flashed him a grin. “Elsa,” he continued softly. “Did something happen with Gold and Anna?”  
  
Elsa wavered, glancing at Will no less than twenty-four times before he nodded. “I mean, she told me already,” Will reasoned.

Emma’s head was going to actually fly off her shoulders and that might have been more comfortable than whatever her brain was doing. Exploding. Maybe.

God, she’d thought the word _boyfriend_ twice already.

“Wait, Anna told you?” Emma asked. “Stuff about her and Gold? Why...oh shit, c’mon, for real?”  
  
Will shrugged, cameras moving against his thighs again, but his smile didn’t waver. “You’re literally making out with Hook in the middle of Times Square, Emma. Plus, Lucas and Belle switched everyone’s rooming assignments in Philadelphia so they could be painfully in love. Trust me, whatever I’m doing is the least of your problems.”  
  
“Just tell the story, Scarlet,” Killian groaned.

“Of course, Hook. Of course. Forgive me for pointing out all your makeout locations.” Emma rolled her eyes, sighing with as much _drama_ as she could muster and she’d mostly done it to work a smile out of Elsa or maybe get Killian to kiss her hair again and she silently congratulated herself on getting both. “Anyway,” Will continued pointedly. “Anna told me that a few years ago, just after…”  
  
“Just after our parents died,” Elsa finished. Emma’s eyes widened. They were all the most dramatic people in the entire universe. “It was about seven years ago and, well, neither one of us were coping well, but that’s...that’s a totally different story. The gist of it is that Anna met Hans Norge on a dating app and it got very serious very quickly and I objected because he’s an asshole. We argued about that for quite some time. Until he proved what an absolute _dick_ he is and, well, we’re here now and Anna and I are fine and now Hans is working for Gold.”  
  
Elsa sighed softly, licking her lips and glancing at Emma apologetically. “I should have told you that in Philadelphia,” she mumbled. “But it’s not something either Anna or I like to think about and I didn’t really think it would matter much. The last thing I thought was Gold mentioning it.”

Killian groaned again, resting his head on the side of Emma’s and Will was already running through a string of explanations that were barely even words. “I didn’t know until, literally, just now, Hook,” he said quickly. “Not until Els looked like she’d just seen an actual ghost with a billion dollars to spare. If I had known any of this yesterday we could have added it to the murder board.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Emma asked, twisting back around and Killian looked torn between exasperation and worry.

“It’s not a murder board,” he brushed off easily. “It’s a way to organize research. Scarlet and Locksley just think they’re funny.”  
  
“I’m very confused,” Elsa said, glancing at her phone when it vibrated in her hand. “And Ruby is super pissed we’ve all disappeared. That was verbatim.”  
  
Killian didn’t look impressed by Ruby’s virtual anger. “Was Hans working for Gold when Anna met him?”

“Yeah, but, like, only just. We’d...he’d only been out of law school for a few months when he, apparently, got the call from Gold and it all just kind of fell into place after that. Why?”  
  
“General curiosity?”  
  
Elsa shook her head and Emma let out a defeated sound that probably didn’t bode well for their success in the tournament once they actually moved away from the corner. “David’s going to kill me,” she sighed, glancing back at Killian. He smiled. “Hans is being investigated by the NYPD,” Emma continued, surprised Elsa’s eyes could actually manage to get that big that quickly. “For racketeering. And I think he’s looking into Gold too, but he didn’t want to give me names because, you know, the rules.”  
  
“He is,” Killian confirmed, and maybe Emma should consider a murder board. Or whatever.

“Emma,” Will said suddenly, voice sharp. “Does Gold know you’re the good detective’s sister?”

She shrugged, making a noise in the back of her throat. “Probably not. Ruth never actually adopted me. Just foster. It’s easier to explain if we just say David is my brother and let that be that. But we don’t have the same last name, so most people don’t look too much into it. Why?”  
  
“I don’t know, just an idea, I guess.”

Emma considered that, not sure who to look at while Will and Killian were doing more of that ridiculously annoying telepathy thing. “You’re trying to plot out more of this board thing, aren’t you?” Emma asked, tugging on the front of Killian’s t-shirt.

Will cackled and even Elsa looked almost relieved. Killian shook his head. “Just trying to make sense of all of this, love. That’s all.”  
Elsa’s phone vibrated again – a loud string of messages that were probably just Ruby shouting at them now – and Emma didn’t even have to look up to see the flash of red headlights sprinting down the block.

She didn’t let go of Killian’s shirt.

“Seriously guys, what the hell?” Ruby screeched, using Elsa’s shoulder to stop her momentum. Will was never going to stop laughing. “You know, I’m like the _second_ on this team, so I don’t appreciate not being involved in your little meetings. That’s just rude.”  
  
“It’s not a meeting, Rubes,” Emma promised. “It was a...discussion.”  
  
“Sounds a lot like a meeting. Back me up on this one, Jones. That’s just a synonym, right?

“Not necessarily,” Killian argued. “Depends on context.”  
  
Ruby gagged, sticking her tongue out and resting her forearm on Elsa’s shoulder. “So, that’s happening then?” she asked, nodding towards Emma’s hand and Killian’s arm around her waist. “You not going to traumatize any more eleven-year-olds? Or my grandmother?”  
  
Emma’s whole body sagged against Killian’s. He kissed her temple. And that seemed like as good an answer as any. “I didn’t think anything could actually traumatize Granny,” she muttered. “And Henry was fine. He got ice cream.”  
  
“Yuh huh. Invite me to the meeting next time, Em. C’mon let’s go fuck over Walsh.”

The inside of the Theatre was far more organized than it had been during qualifying, each team afforded a table and something that might have been a booth if they actually had any merch to sell and it was loud and chaotic, but Emma felt her adrenaline kick in as soon as they walked through the doors.

They were absolutely going to fuck over Walsh.

And she was going to forget everything Gold had tried to convince her of that morning.

She was in control.

Or she would have been if she could get a goddamn controller in her hands.

“This is ridiculous,” Tink said for the fifth time and Emma hummed, not sure what else to say or what else she could do when they’d already posed for enough photos to fuel seventy-six galleries in several different sections of _The Daily Caller._

She stretched her legs out, feet resting on the edge of their designated booth as she let her hair fall over the back of the chair she was considering claiming as her own. They’d been sitting there for hours.

Or, possibly, days.

She’d lost all track of time.

It didn’t really matter. They hadn’t played a single game yet or done anything aside from pose for those photos and even Will had lost a bit of his enthusiasm after awhile. Emma knew, rationally, it wasn’t a personal insult to her or her team.

There was a schedule and a plan and every team had to go best of five anyway – a few matches that went that length and there was no way they could all go off on time. Irrationally, however, she was fairly positive they’d been locked into the last spot of the day in some piss-poor attempt to get under her skin and drive her even closer to insanity while she hashed over every single word Gold had uttered on the sidewalk that morning.

“We should have brought shirts or something,” Ruby muttered, and that wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned that either. They were all a bunch of broken records. “How come we didn’t do that?”  
  
“Because our shirts are ugly and we don’t have the money to do that,” Emma shot back, frustration working its way into her voice and her spine and the very center of her being.

Ruby didn’t say anything else.

It took another forty-two minutes for Emma to decide she was done stewing. She was taking back her control.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, turning towards Killian whose eyes snapped open as soon as she spoke. “How good are you in front of a camera?”  
  
He blinked a few times, exhaustion clear in the crinkles around his eyes and creating a murder board must have been a lot of work. “I don’t follow, Swan.”  
  
“A camera. Or a phone camera, at least. Anna’s to be specific. We’ve got to do something. It’s only three o’clock. We’re not going to be up for another two hours. It’s time to social media.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s an actual verb, love.”  
  
“It is now.”

Killian beamed at her, eyes just a bit brighter than usual and, maybe, just a bit _bluer_ and it left Emma’s stomach doing something ridiculous and they really needed to just _talk_ to each other.

Team first.

Then everything else.

“Where do you want me, Swan?” he asked, leaning forward slightly and the innuendo was absurd and ridiculous and it shot straight into her toes.

“We just covered this. You’re going to interview Anna on camera. And then we’re going to get Locksley or Ariel or whoever can break into the internet to put the video on the site and we’re going to get a quadrillion hits and people are going to come over here and acknowledge us.”  
  
She stopped talking before Killian moved, kissing her without enough feeling that Emma could feel that in her toes as well and she tried not to actually sigh against his mouth, but that was easier said than done when his tongue grazed against her lip and sitting down was suddenly the most challenging thing in the world.

Will made some kind of strangled sound a few feet away and Killian snapped back, eyes still wide, but just a bit concerned and they really need to come up with some kind of plan. Team first. Control first.

Fuck over Walsh first.

“We need to get better at this,” Emma mumbled and Killian twisted his eyebrows.

“I’m trying not to take offense to that, Swan.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant at all. Stop fishing for compliments.”  
  
“I don’t need to do that at all,” he grinned. “We’ll be more discreet, huh? Might be a good idea.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“God,” Will groaned, pushing a phone that Emma assumed was Anna’s in front of her face. “How no one realized this was happening before is beyond me. You guys suck at discreet. Let’s do this, Anna’s already trying to figure out if we should try and make it look like a studio show.”

“How do either one of you even know what’s going on?” Emma asked, grabbing the phone and pushing it against Killian’s chest. He smirked at her.

Will rolled his eyes. “You’re very bad at whispering.”  
  
“Shut up, Scarlet,” Killian muttered, standing up and stuffing Anna’s phone in his back pocket. He held his left hand out towards Emma, nerves obvious in the quick quirk of his mouth and the hopeful tilt of his head and she took it without a second thought, wrapping her fingers around plastic and brushing her thumb across his wrist.

“Let’s social media,” she said.

Anna, as expected, was a gift in front of the camera –  streaming skills coming back to draw in followers and comments that weren’t, entirely, sexist – and she smiled and laughed and had an answer for every single one of Killian’s questions.

And Emma wasn’t really surprised by how goddamn charming he was in front of an iPhone camera, but he played the part perfectly, holding his recorder in his right hand like it was an actual microphone until Belle appeared in the corner of the frame with an actual, plastic microphone that she’d apparently _found in the Duane Reade two blocks away_ and that got Belle in the video and she was just as good and it all worked.

They talked the pros and cons of attack and defense and payload strategies and which character had the most annoying catchphrase.

The commentators had a lot of thoughts on that.

Anna got three hundred new followers in the first fifteen minutes after the video went up and then another four hundred once it found its way to the front page of _The Daily Caller_ website.

“This is genius,” Ariel said, announcing her opinions when she actually FaceTime’d Killian from the site office downtown. Or his office.

“How did you get in there, A?” Killian asked, but he almost sounded impressed.

She brushed him off quickly, waving a hand and sinking further into the corner of the couch. Emma tried not to blush at that. “Please,” she muttered. “It was more difficult getting your video to go in the right spot. Anyone could break into this office. Good thing you keep your murder board at home, huh?”  
  
Killian groaned, but Emma smiled and Will shouted _I told you it was a murder board, Hook_ from a few feet away. Anna got four more followers.

“Although what I don’t understand,” Ariel continued, seemingly unimpressed by whatever Will kept yelling, “is why you guys didn’t go live. I mean the video’s are good and all that, but if you go live, you can answer questions in real time and then drive up interest before you’re actually allowed to play. Are you guys ever going to be allowed to play? Henry’s getting impatient.”  
  
“Henry’s there?” Emma asked, and Ariel nodded, waving towards what was likely the open door of Killian’s office.

She heard footsteps running, _sprinting_ , towards the room and Ariel yelped slightly when Henry pulled the phone out of her hand, another voice in the background screaming as well. And the panting must have been Robin.

“Emma,” Henry exclaimed, his whole face bright and enthusiastic. “Emma! I got an A! My teacher put it on the board! And even Hook said it was really good, right Hook?”  
  
Killian nodded, moving his hand back in between Emma’s shoulders. “It was really good, kid,” he promised. “Where’s your brother? I can hear him.”  
  
Roland’s voice seemed to echo off the office walls, louder when Robin picked him up and moved in front of the camera. And if Henry’s face had lifted as soon as he saw Emma’s, then Roland’s could have acted as an actual power source in Times Square as soon as he saw Killian.

“K,” he shouted, punching the air like that would get Killian downtown. “Are you going to come play later? Henry wants to play later!”  
  
“We’ll see, mate,” Killian muttered, the tips of his ears gone red and Roland sagged slightly. “It depends on how long we’re here, ok? Maybe Uncle Will and I can come by for a little while.”  
  
Roland switched back to _overjoyed_ as quickly as if a light had been turned on and Emma wasn’t quite sure what any of her internal organs were doing. Failing, if her ability to breathe at a consistent level was any indication.

“How much time until you guys play?” Robin asked.

Emma shrugged. “Depends on the teams in front of us and how long they go. Could be a couple more hours. We’re trying to drum up some interest over here while we wait. It’s...eh, it’s a work in progress. Thanks for putting the video on the site.”  
  
“Go live,” Ariel yelled out of frame and Killian’s whole face had flushed, hair falling across his forehead when he ducked his eyes towards the ground.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Robin reasoned. “Can we link that or something, A?”  
  
Ariel made some kind of disbelieving noise, stepping back into the frame and none of them really fit in front of the camera. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “God, you guys are painfully print. Yes, we can link those. Get Anna and Killian back in that studio thing you guys made and let me do the rest.”

They did what Ariel told them and it paid off in spades and a slew of other clichés, the audience growing with every passing moment that Anna and Killian tried to out-sass each other while talking about video games.

It only took a few more moments for the audience to arrive in front of their booth, a sea of people sporting other team’s merch, but barely paying attention to what was happening on the main screen of the Theatre. They cheered when Will turned the camera towards them and Anna’s follower count continued to skyrocket, the fans coming and staying and commenting and _rooting for them_ , hours before they even picked up a controller.

Anna introduced the whole team – came up with vaguely ridiculous nicknames and Ruby announced they’d have to get _those_ on t-shirts next, but Emma couldn’t bring herself to argue when it had all worked out so well.

And they were still live when it was, finally, their turn to play, the crowd in front of their booth erupting as soon as Widow’s Wail was announced across the speakers.

“We should probably buy Ariel a gift, right?” Emma asked, the question barely audible over Anna’s continued screeches with every new follower. “Like flowers or chocolate or something?”  
  
Killian laughed, hand falling on the small of her back as they moved towards the main stage and a table and set of headsets she didn’t really want to use because they weren’t hers. “That’s just going to do dangerous things to her ego.”  
  
“Yeah, but...I mean, it was nice?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
Emma shook her head, but it wasn’t quite the objection it probably should have been. Killian didn’t say anything, just kept his hand anchored on her back and Will took pictures – the fans that should have left hours ago, as soon as Second Star and the other top teams rolled to opening-round victories, still there and enthusiastic and so goddamn loud she could hardly think straight.

“I just….” Emma started, chewing on her lip when she couldn’t think of the right word. “I appreciate it, I guess. All of it.”  
  
Killian eyed her speculatively, gaze tracing across her face like he was looking for an explanation or just trying to understand how one human being could be so confusing. She hoped it wasn’t the later.

She just wanted to....settle.

She wanted him to keep smiling at her. And she wanted to believe it.

She already did. She already….

No. No. Primary fire. Secondary fire. Attack _that_ feeling and push it into the back of her mind with that one frustrating voice that kept telling her there was a reason she’d run as soon as he started making grand, romantic gestures in alleyways.

“That’s not something you have to thank any of us for, Swan,” Killian said lightly. “This is…”  
  
“Your job?”  
  
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But there’s...this is going to work, love.”  
  
Emma was fairly positive he hadn’t meant it as some kind of _promise_ in a bold and underlined kind of way, but then he looked at her and she couldn’t remember _anyone_ looking at her like that ever, even the captain of Second Star who’d spent most of his day ignoring her completely.

Killian looked at her like she meant more than the job or the gig or the money.

They were going to win the entire goddamn tournament.

“We’ll be better at discreet in a second,” she promised, pushing up on her toes and brushing a kiss on Killian’s cheek and he looked a little stunned when she walked away.

Emma dropped into her chair, grabbing her headset and flashing a knowing smile towards Walsh. “Hey, Simia,” she shouted. “Long time.”  
  
He looked surprised she was talking to him. “You even know how to play the game, Em? Last I heard you were floating around still trying to make Halo 3 interesting.”  
  
“Please, you still play Warcraft like that’s a game people even remember exists. You donate to the movie’s kickstarter so you could get all that extra footage too?”  
  
Walsh didn’t say anything, just grumbled under his breath and Emma laughed loudly. Ruby nearly fell out of her chair. “Oh my God, you did, didn’t you?” she cried. “Ah, man, you must have been so disappointed. You write a letter to the studio?”  
  
“Play the game, Em,” Walsh hissed, tugging on his headset when it started to slide off the side of his hair.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing!”  
  
“You’re not going to win. I heard you guys over there with your journalism contingent and your social media...whatever. That’s not going to work when you’ve got to actually have a plan of attack here.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned, shaking the mouse in her hand to make sure it would actually respond when they attacked. “Who’s writing your speeches? You should fire them.”  
  
Walsh turned slowly, twisting his whole body to grin at Emma and she wasn’t entirely prepared for the quiet _rage_ there. She was almost certain he’d actually start breathing fire at some point. “You absolutely know already, Em,” he muttered. “You’re not going to win.”  
  
It felt like she’d been doused in ice water or thrown in the middle of the ocean and everything hurt, metaphorical knives of _realization_ landing on every inch of her and Emma barely even heard the announcement that the game had started.

“Oh shit,” she mumbled when Ruby’s elbow found her side and they were playing.

It didn’t take long.

In fact, in the grand scheme of the day, actually playing the game might have been the easiest thing they’d done.  

They won the first two games without much more than a passing challenge – Walsh’s team barely putting up a fight on defense and Emma was certain they’d gotten to the payload in the second game faster than they’d ever moved.

“Get Reinhardt to the main entrance,” Emma shouted, midway through the third game and they still hadn’t been challenged much. Walsh almost looked bored. “Tink, that’s you, you’ve got to cover up there!”  
  
“Aye aye, captain,” Tink called back. She waved her hand through the air, long enough to nearly work another yell out of Emma, but they were still winning and, maybe, having fun.

And it all felt way too easy.

She was the worst kind of pessimist.

“They’ve got a backline here,” Emma called. Her team actually groaned. They knew. They’d practiced. They’d gone over the map a hundred and two times since they were told which one they’d get in the first round and if they were playing defense, they would have had a backline of protection on the first point too.

That just made sense.

But Walsh wasn’t playing as well as he could have and his team was barely putting up a fight – not even bothering to use Roadhog when he was practically made for that map and that scenario.

Emma’s head hurt. Maybe her headset was too tight. And maybe she hadn’t been able to ignore Gold’s words, even after social media superstardom and cheering fans and trash talk.

They won after a few more minutes of not-quite-intelligent game play and Emma couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. A sweep. She should have been overjoyed, thrilled that they’d _rolled_ over Walsh and Henry was probably jumping up and down several dozen blocks away.

That almost made Emma feel better.

And then she looked at Walsh and he didn’t even seem surprised that they’d been swept, barely acknowledging the teammate next to him and he actually smiled when he realized Emma was staring at him.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asked bluntly, tugging her headset off and pulling her own hair in the process.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand that question, Em,” Walsh answered. “You should be taking more tips from your journalism contingent.”  
  
She stood up quickly, anger flashing through her as soon as she took a step towards him and his smile didn’t waver. “Cut the crap,” she bit out. “That was the shittiest game you’ve ever played in your life, what just happened here?”  
  
“Still not seeing where you’re going with this.”  
  
“You threw that!”

Walsh made a noise, pressing back onto the back legs of his chair and crossing his arms lightly over his chest. The fans were paying attention to the rest of Emma’s team, shouting names and requesting a moment in the social media spotlight and Anna was live again.

No one realized Emma wasn’t there.

Except Killian. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, leaning up against the far wall with his feet crossed at the ankles and his thumb twisted through his belt loop.

“That’s an awfully interesting accusation to make,” Walsh muttered, lifting his eyebrows like all of this was hysterical. “Aren’t you more confident in your team, Em?”

“Obviously, but you didn’t even try to play. You’re a competitive asshole. That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“You know, the longer this conversation lasts, the more I’m getting offended.”  
  
“Why did you throw that?” Emma pressed, frustration getting the better of her. She was starting to shout and she’d draw the attention of the fans soon. She couldn't afford that. Literally.

“You know who’s throwing things? You. Throwing accusations. Unfounded ones at that.”  
  
“The truth, Simia!”  
  
“That is the truth, Em,” Walsh said, and it almost sounded honest, but his eyes flickered towards the far wall and Killian, and Emma wanted Mary Margaret to make her several gallons of hot chocolate.

“You told me we weren’t going to win” Emma argued. “You looked me in the eye and promised we weren’t going to win and then you lost, on purpose, so you’re contradicting yourself. You’ll see how it’s easy to assume you’re lying here, right?”  
  
Walsh blanched, lips pressed together tightly when the front legs of his chair crashed back onto the ground. “I wasn’t thinking,” he mumbled.

“Obviously.”  
  
“Swan,” Killian said softly, appearing next to her before she realized he’d even moved away from the wall. Walsh, somehow, got even paler. “Anna wants to do reaction stuff with you on the live feed and I’ve got a couple of questions too.”  
  
Emma nodded, the diversion almost painfully obvious, but appreciated all the same. “Yeah, sure,” she muttered. Walsh seemed very interested with the ground. “You fucked up Simia.” He jerked his head up, gaze confused and Emma smiled. “You shouldn’t have agreed to that,” she continued. “What’d he offer you?”  
  
“You’re not making any sense, Em,” Walsh said, but his voice was strained and it was another lie and she could barely see through the red on the edge of her vision.

“Sure it doesn’t. I’m going to figure it out.”  
  
“No you’re not.”  
  
“Watch me,” Emma hissed, and it felt like a guarantee. Walsh looked like he’d seen a ghost. And she barely waited a moment before turning on her heels, fingers wrapped around Killian’s wrist and back towards her team and a live video feed that was going to make them a considerable amount of money.

They barely made it halfway across the floor before Killian stopped short, arm wrapped around Emma’s waist as he tugged her back to face him. “Are you alright, love?”  
  
“You keep asking me that.”  
  
“I’m constantly wondering.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but mostly so she wouldn’t be tempted to try and kiss him again and discreet was a challenge she expected less than Walsh Simia blowing the first round of League play. “You think he lost on purpose don’t you?” Killian asked, hands tracing up her arms.

“How could you possibly know that?”  
  
“I’m almost starting to understand the game and he didn’t even try and build up his defenses around the point. That’s just impractical.”  
  
“You’re an undercover strategist.”  
  
Killian shook his head. “Observant. That’s part of the job description.” He narrowed his eyes slightly and Emma tried not to blink, everything she should have told him before discreet was an obligation instead of a suggestion bouncing around in the back corner of her mind. She didn’t say anything.

Of course she didn’t.

Mary Margaret would be incredibly disappointed in her.

“What exactly are you looking at?” Emma asked softly, and that might have been the lamest thing _she’d_ said, but Killian smiled at her and her heart couldn’t seem to decide which rhythm was best.

He stopped moving his hands, letting his right arm fall back down towards her waist and they’d lost all concept of personal space. Emma wasn’t sure they’d ever really had it to begin with. “Was that not obvious?” he asked. “You’re thinking something, love. Rather loudly, I might add.”  
  
“And you can’t figure it out? Your mind reading abilities only extend to Scarlet?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You guys were all clairvoyant before, mind melding in some kind of Professor X type way.”  
  
“Swan, none of those references made sense in that order.”

“Whatever,” she brushed off, and maybe they didn’t actually to talk about any of this. She had to go back to her team. And they’d _won_ , they were on to the next round and a required celebration at Granny’s or Mary Margaret would actually kill all of them after she’d spent most of her Saturday baking. “Hey, were you ok before?”

Killian lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly. “When? While you were talking to the video game monkey?”  
  
“No, no, when...when Gold showed up. Is that the first time you’ve ever seen him?”  
  
His hand fell away from her waist as he rocked back on his heels and Emma tried not to start shouting more questions. “No,” Killian muttered. “I’ve, uh, I’ve seen him before, but only ever in the usual places. Headlines and front-page photos, that kind of thing. He rarely shows up in print, though. That’s the first time I’ve ever met him.”  
  
“And he knew you.”

“He did.” Emma tried to smile encouragingly, but she was treading close to _falling apart_ and they shouldn't have won so easily. “You’re still thinking, love.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess I am,” she admitted, exhaling loudly and resting her palm on the front of his shirt. They should make a list of all the things they shouldn't be doing and then actually follow them. “I just...I’m sorry.”  
  
“What could you possibly be apologizing for?”  
  
Emma shrugged, not sure she could actually find the actual words for what she was trying to convey and she wished _open book_ worked on some kind of mental level. “You said you left New York when Liam died, right?” she asked, and Killian took a step back, eyebrows furrowed and lips thin.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I...why are you asking that?”  
  
“Did he die in New York?”  
  
Killian looked stunned and Emma needed to _shut the hell up_ , but he didn’t walk away from her and she was curious and she _wanted_ in a way she couldn’t ever remember wanting. God, she wanted to know everything.

“No,” he whispered. “He died in a training accident in the Pacific. A mistake.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Where are you going with this, love?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admitted, pushing her hands into her pockets and they weren’t really big enough for that. “I guess, I was just worried…”  
  
“Ah, no then.” Emma lifted her eyebrows in confusion. She hadn’t actually asked a question. “I’m not looking for an out, Swan. I am here. For the long haul.”  
  
“The season?”

_God, shut up._

Killian smirked, taking a step back towards her and she tried not to brush that piece of hair away from his forehead. “No,” he said easily and intently and Emma’s pulse pounded in her ears, doing its best to drown out follow-ups and doubts and the suspicion that Robert Gold was absolutely in control of all of this. “Unless…”  
  
“No, no,” Emma stammered and the smirk got more pronounced. “I mean, God, stop smiling like that, it’s distracting.”

He laughed, easy and just a bit breathless and maybe they could just win. Maybe it wasn’t a conspiracy. Maybe they didn’t need the murder board.

Maybe she was totally lying to herself.

But Killian kept smiling at her, lingering in her space and her life and she was tired of running.

“We’re going to figure this out, love,” he said softly. Emma bit her lip, closing her eyes and letting the words sink into the space between her ribs and, for half a moment, she let herself hope. “And you’re going to win.”  
  
“You’re so sure of that.”  
  
“I know you think the monkey lost on purpose and maybe he did and maybe all of this is some great, big conspiracy where we’re all just pawns in some sort of absurd real-life game. But…”  
  
“How can there possibly be a _but_ to that sentence?”  
  
“If you’d let me finish, you’d know,” Killian grinned. Emma huffed, sagging in front of him and they were _awful_ at this because he ducked his head and brushed his lips across hers quickly and it was more than enough to have her chasing after him. “But,” he repeated seriously, ignoring the look on Emma’s face, “if this is all of that and even more then I almost don’t care, so long as we understand each other, Swan.”  
  
“Understand each other,” she repeated. “How so?”  
  
“What do you want, love?”  
  
“I want to win,” she said, and Killian deflated slightly. “And,” Emma added softly, tugging on belt loops and pressing up on her toes until she was almost level with him. “This.”  
  
It was absurd and _lame_ and something that Mary Margaret probably mentioned seeing in a rom-com once, but Emma didn’t allow herself to stop and consider the particulars of it before she wrapped her arms around Killian’s neck and kissed him.

In the middle of the Playstation Theatre.

He rocked against her, fingers trailing across the bottom of her spine and then back up in between her shoulder blades and toying with the end of her hair and she was half a second away from making a comment about his seeming obsession with her hair, but then he did that tongue thing and Emma forgot what the English language was.

Emma sighed or maybe just breathed and none of that made much sense either – Philadelphia had _happened_ , as much as she’d tried to ignore it after Halloween and, God, they’d made out on the couch that Ariel had been sitting on before like teenagers who couldn't seem to stop touching each other. None of this was anything she’d hadn’t already experienced.

With Killian.

And yet.

She dropped back to her feet, hands resting on either side of his waist and finding their way back underneath the jacket he’d never actually taken off. She could feel the brush of his stubble against her chin and her cheek when one of them pulled away and he couldn't seem to stop kissing her, pressing light touches against her jaw and her temple and they hadn’t moved.

Someone was going to see.

“We are playing with fire, love,” Killian muttered, taking a deep breath and looking at her like he wouldn't have argued if they both got burned.

Shit, that was lame too.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Emma agreed. “I, um…”  
  
“Discreet, right?”  
  
She nodded. “Maybe we can put the rules on your murder board too. Just to keep everything compact and organized.”  
  
“It’s not a murder board, Swan. Nothing is going to happen. Your brother won’t let it.”  
  
“Neither will you.”  
  
“No, I won’t,” he said, and Emma believed him. Completely.

She waved to the live-stream fans eventually and Killian told Robin to bring Henry and Roland to Granny’s and they, collectively, ate at least a dozen of Mary Margaret’s freshly-made baked goods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things. They keep happening. And will continue to happen. But after a short break. I'm going to eat Dole Whip and Magic Kingdom churros and there's this one stand in EPCOT with like some absurd garlic spread for Wine and Food and then I'm going to actually meet Captain Hook. In other words, I'm going to Disney World and the next three schedule updates won't be scheduled. Probably because I'll still be freaking out about meeting Captain Hook. My husband will probably still be laughing about it. 
> 
> As always, thank you internet for being the nicest about this story and reading and clicking and shouting in the comments. Come flail [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down or want to see photos of me acting like a child in Disney.


	17. Chapter 17

“Just go ahead and make yourself at home then.”  
  
Killian grinned, but he didn’t actually turn around, just swung his other foot onto the edge of Regina’s desk and held up the coffee cup in the air. “It’s got whipped cream on it,” he said, straining to hear the clack of sky-high heels.

She wasn’t moving.

He groaned, twisting his neck and trying to push the nerves and the worry he’d been decidedly ignoring since Emma had kissed him in the middle of the Playstation Theatre even further into the back corner of his head or the pit of his stomach or maybe just out of his body entirely. That probably would have been for the best.

There was nothing to worry about.

Of course not.

Just Robert Gold actually appearing on 44th Street and talking to Emma like she was a particularly interesting challenge and, well, maybe she was, but not like that and not when Detective David Nolan was, maybe, investigating Robert Gold through his incredibly sleazy attorney and that incredibly sleazy attorney was also representing some brand-new board member at Mills Media and...Killian’s head hurt.

It might have been from all the caffeine he’d had already, several ventis into the day and it wasn't even noon yet and Will’s couch was an absolute piece of garbage that wasn’t doing anything to help his back or his neck or his ability to sleep consistently through the night.

Although that might be because he was so goddamn worried and because he was fairly certain he’d sleep a hell of a lot better if Emma was there and that was a thought he couldn’t afford to be thinking.

No. Right? That was an acceptable thought. That was a discreet thought –  _had to be_ because there were rules and ethics and the whole team knew and probably Mary Margaret and maybe Henry, but the  _real world_ didn’t know and that was the important part.

Except Robert Gold.

Who definitely knew. Because he’d caught them making out in the middle of Times Square like tourists who were seeing Manhattan for the first time, trying to recreate historic photos.

Killian was so lost in his own thoughts and that worry he absolutely had not been able to ignore for the better part of the last twenty-four hours that he didn’t even notice the heels walking towards him or Regina tugging the cup out of his hand.

Or, at least, trying to.

He hadn’t really been paying attention and when faced with a sudden and unexpected enemy, Killian’s hand tightened around the cup and held on like a vice. He nearly spilled the drink all over Regina and her very fancy shoes.

“On a scale of one to absolutely batshit crazy where would you say you are right now?” Regina asked, nodding towards his hand and his white knuckles.

He exhaled loudly, flexing his fingers no less than twenty times in some poor attempt to get his blood flowing again and his phone buzzed on Regina’s desk. She lifted her eyebrows knowingly, pulling the top off the coffee cup and dumping it unceremoniously in the garbage next to her desk. “Did you…”  
  
Killian hummed, leaning forward slightly to tug the slightly worse-for-wear looking, and likely very stale, biscotti out of his pocket and tossing them in front of Regina. “Don’t insult me like that, your majesty,” he muttered, and she almost smiled.

“These are going to be absolutely disgusting aren’t they?”  
  
“Well, your drink starts off as absolutely disgusting so it’s really just par for the course for you at this point.”   
  
“You didn’t answer my question.”   
  
Killian twisted his eyebrows, making some kind of noise in the back of his throat that might have been an agreement and Regina’s lips twitched. She sighed when he didn’t answer, ripping open the biscotti wrapper with just a bit more force than necessary and dunking the whole thing in the ridiculous amount of whipped cream he’d ordered on her drink.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” Regina asked, brandishing the pastry at him like a weapon. “Easily. The most annoying person   
I’ve ever met.”  
  
“And yet you wanted me here,” Killian said. He tried not to let the bitterness creep into his voice, the worry returning in full force and maybe the headache was a full-blown migraine now. His phone buzzed again and Regina’s eyes darted to the screen –  _Swan_ flashing there like some kind of admission of guilt.

He slumped in the chair, which wasn’t easy considering his feet were still resting on the edge of the desk.

“Huh,” Regina muttered.

Killian was a bit disappointed at that. There should have been a lecture or, at least, a well-formed and rather scathing opinion and neither one came and that seemed worse. She ate the entire biscotti, dipping it in whipped cream until the whipped cream was gone and Roland absolutely got all his eating habits from her.

“That’s it?” Killian asked after a few more minutes of clearly judgmental silence. Regina grinned at him. He rolled his eyes, sighing with all the drama he could muster. “Oh my God,” he groaned. “Gina, are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Robin and my kids went to her restaurant last night as part of some kind of celebratory event and Henry is honestly a questionably large fan at this point. You think I don’t know what’s going on here? Insult me a different way, please.”   
  
“You’re an unfeeling, ice queen,” he muttered, the practiced retort falling off his tongue with ease and Regina actually laughed at him.

“Old favorites.”  
  
“I’m not really sleeping all that well, it’s easier to fall back on tried and true.”

Her smile faltered a bit at that and Killian silently cursed himself for giving up too much. He should have bought himself another coffee. He wasn’t sure his blood pressure could actually deal with another cup of coffee.

“That so?” Regina asked. It was even more judgmental than her _huh_ and Killian probably would have been impressed if he wasn’t half sure he was dying from a espresso overdose.

“I mean I’m sleeping on a couch, so…”  
  
“Were you planning on doing anything about that?”   
  
He shouldn’t have brought her biscotti. He should have brought her a disgusting caffeinated beverage and neglected the pastry part and then demanded answers about board members and how they fit into whatever mystery he might have been solving and then left.

And asked about hits on his story from the night before.

He should have probably lead with that.

Regina lifted her eyebrows, waiting, almost, patiently for an answer and now she was just dipping the biscotti straight into the espresso. “That is absolutely disgusting,” Killian grumbled, pulling his feet off the desk and slamming that back onto the ground.

Regina chuckled lightly, resting her elbows on her desk and pointedly ignoring whatever her phone was doing. It looked like it was trying to masquerade as a Christmas tree. “Shouldn’t you do something about that?” he asked, nodding towards the lights and the muted sound.

“Shouldn't you do something about that?” she countered, tapping her finger lightly on his phone screen. He had half a dozen unopened text messages.

“I am.”  
  
“You are?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Seems awfully different than I am.”   
  
“Why are you cherry-picking what I’m saying?”   
  
Regina didn’t just roll her eyes – she rolled her whole head and huffed for good measure. “Did I lose then? Are you absolutely a smirch on journalism ethics everywhere?”   
  
“Yes,” Killian said immediately, and he’d done it almost entirely for the reaction and it probably would have been worth it if his neck didn’t hurt so goddamn much or if he couldn’t stop thinking about Robert Gold practically _hissing_ at them in Times Square.

“Huh,” Regina repeated.

Killian grinned, but he knew it didn’t look entirely honest and he’d been far too _happy_ the night before, Emma’s hands finding his and she didn’t shy away from his left side – _never had_ , part of him made sure to point out – and she was just as worried as he was, but he could feel the warmth of her in every inch of him whenever her lips brushed against his and she smiled when she kissed him just outside Granny’s.

David hadn’t tried to _over-protective brother_ him once.

“You’re being awfully silent, your majesty,” Killian muttered, determined to break through the quiety and the feeling and Regina’s eyes flashed when he started talking again.

“I’m thinking,” she hissed. “And you’re still infuriating. You should have brought me two packets of biscotti.”  
  
“Ah, but then you’d just be dunking your whole hand in drink and that’s not really befitting journalism royalty is it?”   
  
“What does that make you, the court jester?”   
  
He actually laughed, the knot of anxiety that had been wrapped around his whole body loosening just a bit and Regina’s shoulders drooped slightly and maybe she wasn’t actually mad. He hoped she wasn’t actually mad.

He hoped she wasn’t disappointed.

God, he was a teenager.

And absolutely _besotted_ with Emma. In love with Emma. Absolutely in love with Emma.

“It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?” Killian asked, and Regina shrugged, smile still tugging on her mouth. “It’s not...I mean, it absolutely is, but it’s also...what’s a better phrase than absolutely top secret?”  
  
“I mean that makes sense all things considered. And we can’t really afford to have some kind of writer, subject affair come to light and make everyone question the validity of our reporting.”  
  
“It’s not going to change anything,” Killian snapped.

Regina looked surprised. “Isn’t it?”  
  
“Why would it?”   
  
“Because I know you went to see her brother and I know you’re sending Ariel on craft store runs to create some kind of connection board like a Scooby Doo villain or something.”   
  
Killian tilted his head, trying to glare at Regina as she peered at him over the top of her half-finished coffee. “That’s not what’s happening,” he argued. “I’m not the villain in this story.”   
  
“Oh, yeah? Who is?”   
  
“I don’t know. That’s what the board is for.”   
  
“Obviously. And you went to the police with this?”   
  
“He was already looking into stuff. Emma told me…”   
  
Regina nearly dropped the coffee on his phone – vibrating again and that one was Scarlet and was probably a complaint about the blanket Killian absolutely hadn’t folded on the couch. “You’re talking about this with Emma?”

“Gina,” he started, but she shook her head, standing up quickly and pressing her palms flat into her desk.

“Are you serious?”  
  
“About the talking or the…”   
  
“Her,” she growled, rolling her eyes and squeezing them shut and he felt like he was being disciplined for breaking curfew or not folding the blankets. “Obviously. God.”   
  
“I am,” Killian repeated, honest and serious and he hoped Regina understood that. She sat back down. That felt like a sign.

“Yeah, I can tell.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Regina nodded slowly, lips pressed together tightly when she started tapping out a quick rhythm against a pile of papers just next to Killian’s phone. “Yeah,” she echoed. “It’s...you’re better.”   
  
“Presumptuous.”   
  
“No, no,” she said. “Not in a broken way, well, yeah, maybe exactly in that kind of way. The story last night was good. Long. Again. You should really think about word count before you file, but it was good. The social media angle is interesting. Is that allowed?”   
  
“Allowed? What do you mean?”

“In their League contract. Seems strange that they’d just be able to stream themselves, right?”  
  
Killian laughed slightly and Regina rolled her eyes again. “That’s a ridiculous sentence,” he mused, but he didn’t really have an answer and it had to be fine. The League didn’t put them on the site themselves, so they could only do their own work. Right?   
  
Yeah. Absolutely. It was fine.

“Have you looked at this contract?”  
  
“That’s not part of the job, Gina.”   
  
“But dating your league source is?”   
  
“We’re not dating.”   
  
Regina’s eyebrows flew up and she knocked half the papers on the ground. “I’m confused,” she admitted begrudgingly, and that seemed like a theme for his life at this point.

“We’re not dating,” Killian said again. “That’s not...is this high school?”  
  
“No, this is your entire life and your entire career and you’re putting it all on the line for some girl we don’t know anything about.”   
  
“We? I don’t remember inviting you into any of this, Gina. Also, you sound like Locksley.”   
  
“Yeah, well, most normal people in actual relationships tell each other things,” Regina growled, and Killian kind of wished she’d stand up again so she didn’t look like she was actually sitting on a throne in front of him. “Have you told her things? Has she told you things?”   
  
“God, Gina, c’mon.”   
  
“I’m serious! You’re investigating some crime that might not even be a crime and this is dangerous. You should at least be getting all the information. That is your job isn’t it?”   
  
It was.

He had to ask questions and write profiles and they really needed another profile and to figure out how many hits the story got in the last few hours, but he hadn’t seen Ariel yet and he just wanted to know more about the new board member.

And then maybe find his own apartment.

Uptown.

Away from Mills Media and journalism ethics and anything that didn’t actually feel like the weight of the entire world resting on his shoulders.

Killian knew something was wrong – saw the way Emma’s whole body tensed as soon as the words were out of Gold’s mouth the morning before, something flashing across her face at his accusations and allusions. Walsh absolutely lost on purpose.

“I am doing my job,” Killian promised, nodding towards the computer on the corner of her desk. “I wrote a story. Did it sound particularly biased?”  
  
Regina scowled at him. “No.”   
  
“Then I fail to see the problem, your majesty. Did Locksley happen to mention who else was involved in all this?”   
  
“Yeah,” she nodded, whispering the word softly like she was nervous of setting off some kind of explosion in her office. “That’s why I’m worried.”   
  
“Emotion? Unheard of in this building, isn’t it?”   
  
“Don’t be an ass.”   
  
“You and Scarlet need to work on your insults.”   
  
Regina took a deep breath, sitting up straighter in her chair, but there was a hint of actual, human emotion in her gaze and she looked as worried as she promised she was. “I don’t want to watch you spiral again,” she said softly, and Killian felt any resentment or frustration evaporate quickly. “I can’t...I won’t do that again. Not when Henry and Rol are so happy you’re here and you’re...you really do look better.”   
  
“It’s different, Gina,” Killian admitted, and that might have been the first time he’d given credence that particular brand of thinking. “It’s a good story.”   
  
That wasn’t nearly enough – wasn’t enough words or adjectives or adverbs, but Regina hummed softly and she absolutely understood.

“I’m going to take credit for all of this,” she said.

“I would expect nothing less.”  
  
“Ass.”   
  
“You know I came here for a reason. Not just to get mother’ed.” Regina actually stuck her tongue out, a move he hadn’t seen in over a decade and maybe the espresso was affecting both of them just a bit more than usual.

“Is this bribe coffee?”  
  
“Absolutely.” Regina groaned, bending down to grab the papers she’d knocked over and Killian’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he realized what they were – third quarter markups, charts and numbers and names.

One very specific name.

“What are you staring at?” Regina demanded. Killian didn’t answer, just reached forward and grabbed the papers and ignored her quiet reprimand and string of curses and insults.

“Shit, he’s not even creative,” Killian mumbled, half to himself and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it before. He needed to tell David. He should probably get David’s number. And ask about the hit total.

Killian Jones was not a cop.

And Captain Liam Jones was, undoubtedly, hysterical in the afterlife again. A pen fell off Regina’s desk.

“Jesus Christ, he’s absolutely haunting us,” Killian sighed, slumping into the chair until his knees bent and Regina stared at him like he should be committed.

“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Have you actually met your new board member?”

Regina’s eyes bugged and her nostrils flared and she snatched the papers out of his hands like they were personally responsible for the information breach. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m assuming just telling you that I know everything isn’t going to cut it?” Regina shook her head, barely contained rage practically seething underneath her skin. “Emma,” Killian said deftly. “Her brother, who you already know I’ve talked to about Hans and Gold, is investigating Hans and Gold and would you like to know who your brand-new board member is represented by? And by, extension, being investigated.”  
  
Regina exhaled loudly, breathing erratically and her eyes darted from Killian back to the pile of papers in front of her, looking for a lie that wasn’t there. “So you’ve never met him, then?” Killian pressed. “This Zauberer guy? God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out yesterday.”

“Speak in full and complete sentences, Jones,” Regina commanded, and the _last name_ was like a flashing neon sign to that emotion she’d alluded to before.

“I think your new board member is actually Robert Gold.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Killian nodded and Regina’s hand hovered over her phone, likely getting ready to call Locksley and demand his presence to escort Killian out of the building and straight to Bellevue. “You didn’t actually answer the question, Gina,” he said. “Have you met him? In person?”   
  
“No,” she confessed after what felt like several weeks of silence. “He didn’t come to the meeting. Sent his lawyer.”   
  
“Hans was here?”   
  
“How do you know his name?”   
  
“Gina, have you even been listening to anything I’m saying? Hans the sleazy lawyer is being investigated by the NYPD for racketeering and they’re looking at other clients to see if he’s doing anything absolutely shady, which he is, because all of this connects to video games.”   
  
“Video games,” Regina repeated skeptically. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”   
  
“You know what’s going on! Locksley told you about the murder board!”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
Killian didn’t remember standing up, just that he’d started pacing at some point and nearly ran into the chair when he threw his hands into the air. “Listen to me, I need you to tell me the absolute truth here. Why did you bring in a new board member?”   
  
“You’re telling me you haven’t figured that part out yet? I’m almost disappointed.”   
  
“Gina,” Killian groaned, rolling his head between his shoulders and staring at the ceiling in hope of...something. He didn’t know.   
If Liam was going to haunt both of them he was doing a piss-poor job of actually helping.

“You’re Mr. Private Investigator over there,” Regina continued. “It only makes sense that you’d figure this part out as well.”  
  
“This isn’t a joke.”   
  
“Oh, I know it’s not. Trust me on that one.”   
  
Killian bit his lip, drawing blood and his shoulders heaved when he tried to take a deep breath. He hadn’t answered any of his text messages.

And Regina looked like she was teetering on the edge of _coming undone_ , fingers beating out an impossibly quick rhythm on her desk.

Oh, he was an idiot.

He needed another board.

The money. Of course it was about the money. _The Daily Caller_ wasn’t doing well – needed the hits and the ad revenue and it didn’t have much of either and…   
  
“Did Cora bring him in?” Killian asked sharply, nearly falling over when he came up mid-pace in the middle of the office. “Why the alias?”   
  
Regina grimaced, squeezing her eyes closed and taking another deep breath, but she stopped tapping her fingers. “Probably because it wouldn’t look good to have his name in the masthead when he owns most of the city. You want to talk about bias, that’s like Rockefeller owning _The Times_ or something.”   
  
“Got an awfully high opinion of your own website don’t you?”   
  
“No,” Regina shook her head. “The exact opposite of that, actually. And, yes, to answer your question. It was all her idea.”   
  
“That doesn’t seem concerning to you? Or something you should mention to me?”   
  
“No,” Regina repeated, ignoring whatever look had settled onto Killian’s face. “Because this is almost what I expected if I told you that Gold was involved in _Caller_ stuff and you’re already there even without knowing that he was here, so why would I tell you anything?”   
  
“That was a very jumbled explanation.”   
  
“Should I get you another piece of poster board so you can understand it better?”

Killian sneered, but Regina was far too well acquainted with that particular look to be even remotely moved by it. “And you don’t think he’s going to have a direct and immediate impact on any of this? If your mother brought him in for his money then he’s going to try and use that money to exercise some control, don’t you think?”  
  
“This is not a conspiracy, Killian.”   
  
“That’s exactly what it is. Stop avoiding the question, Gina. You don’t think this guy, who is sponsoring a different video game team than the one we are profiling, by the way, is going to try and control what content gets on the site?”

Regina shook her head, but she didn’t look quite as certain and Killian’s stomach did something absurd. “It’s not,” she said. “This is about keeping the site online when the entire industry is falling apart. This isn’t going to change anything with the stories or the content or anything. He’s not editorial. He’s not even looking over here. I still have…”  
  
She cut herself off, eyes going wider than usual and Killian waited for the rest of that sentence, looking for just a bit of confirmation that this was not as absolutely horrible as he thought it was.

“Gina,” he said slowly, and Regina pointed a finger towards the open door. He turned quickly, snapping his head back and Cora almost smiled.

It set Killian’s teeth on edge.

“An interesting discussion to come into,” Cora mused, crossing her arms lightly and her eyes didn’t move away from Killian. “I feel like I’ve missed so much already. Mr. Jones, how interesting to see you up here. Shouldn’t you be in some deserted alleyway somewhere documenting death?”

“I’m a feature writer,” Killian said evenly. Cora laughed. Regina might have frozen.

“Of course you are.”  
  
“Well, as always, it’s been an absolute pleasure, Cora, but if you don’t need to make any other grand, sweeping allusions to what exactly it is I do for your site, then I’m going to get back to my own office.”   
  
Cora stood up straighter, leveling him with a stare that was probably the inspiration for several Greek myths and Killian stopped in his tracks. His phone buzzed again. Regina slid it across the desk, plastic hitting up against his hand when he reached behind him.

“No, no, no,” Cora said simply, smile inching across her face slowly and it reminded Killian of Gold and this was all too much. “I have some very exciting news for you, Mr. Jones.”  
  
“I can only imagine,” he muttered, stuffing his phone in his back pocket and hoping Emma was only a few of those unanswered messages.

“Interesting story last night.”  
  
“I’ll admit I’m surprised you read it.”   
  
“When you have so much riding on its success?” Cora asked, genuine surprise in her voice. Regina’s chair squeaked behind him, her heel scraping across the ground, but he didn’t turn around, tried desperately not to even blink. “That’s almost insulting, Mr. Jones,” she continued, and the smile looked unnatural on her face.

“What is it you want to tell me, Cora?”  
  
“Your numbers have been going down. Consistently.”   
  
Killian licked his lips – he knew that. He’d tried to ignore it, certain if he worried about that as well, he’d just become some kind of twisted lump of _worry_ with a few muscles and a handful of still-functioning organs.

God, he should have talked to Ariel as soon as he got into the office.

“They’re still hitting though,” Killian argued, waving a hand behind his back when Regina tried to cut into the conversation. “Over two hundred every time.”  
  
“You haven’t even hit fifty this morning.”   
  
“It’s only just after noon.”

Cora shrugged and that was the first time he’d ever seen anything like that. Maybe they’d just stumbled into an entirely different universe. That was, somehow, shittier than the original one. Except the parts where he got to kiss Emma.

He’d like to kiss Emma some more.

“You should be aware, Mr. Jones,” Cora continued, seemingly unconcerned with whatever noise Regina was making behind her desk. “That our leadership isn’t particularly interested in the direction some of our sections are taking.”  
  
“Your leadership,” Killian laughed. “Aren’t you the leadership Cora? Don’t you own the site or did your own board push you out?”   
  
Cora didn’t say anything and Killian grinned in triumph, rocking back on his heels. “I’ll point out again, I’ve got a contract,” he added. “The whole series. Not to mention everything else. As long as I hit two hundred on this story, there’s not anything you or your brand-new leadership and extensive funding can do to me.”

“Wait, what?” Regina asked sharply, and Cora’s eyes finally left Killian, darting towards her daughter. His stomach fell onto the floor.

“Ah, so he didn’t tell you about that?” Cora laughed, but there wasn’t anything even resembling joy in the sound. “It almost seems fair though, doesn’t it? You didn’t tell him about our arrangement did you, sweetheart?”  
  
Regina made a strangled sound and Killian turned quickly, any sort of confidence he had about _anything_ practically melting out of him as soon as they looked at each other. “I know what you did, Gina,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have done that.”   
  
“It won’t matter,” she countered. “The stories are good. And it’s my editorial decision. This isn’t about revenue.”   
  
Cora clicked her tongue and Regina seemed to have fallen into _undone_ quicker than Killian imagined was possible. “It’s always about revenue, sweetheart,” she said. “And Mr. Jones is right, the new board member does have some very strong opinions about what happens next. So, it’s imperative that our deal stays in tact. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jones?”   
  
Killian tried to walk around his metaphorical stomach lying on the actual floor, keeping his steps measured and his breath even. “We’ll hit two hundred,” he promised. “That won't be an issue.”

“He seems to think you’re missing an angle, you know.”

“Excuse me? Your money is giving tips on an angle? And, correct me if I’m wrong, Cora, but won’t that point be moot if, as you’re suggesting, this is my last story with Mills?”  
  
“What?” Regina yelled, glaring at Killian when he tried to brush her off again.

Cora looked like she’d won the lottery. “Mr. Jones was very put out by what you were willing to do in order to get him to New York,” she explained, staring at Regina like she was not eighteen and not the editor-in-chief of a major international website. “So, he and I came up with a little agreement. So far, he’s made his hit mark. Two-hundred thousand a story in the first week after pub. The numbers have been going down, however, and this just proves it’s as bad a story as I told you it was from the beginning. People just aren’t interested.”

Regina sank back onto her chair, but her gaze fell back to Killian and he was drowning in guilt and a distinct drop in hits from story to story. “What did you do?” she asked softly.

“He’ll leave,” Cora answered. “He’ll give up this ridiculous attempt at being...what did you call it? A features writer. And we can get back to covering things that will make us money.”  
  
Regina blinked, mouth hanging open and Killian couldn’t hold her gaze. “It’s going to hit,” he said again, like that would somehow click the story link and up the total. “It’s a good story.”   
  
“It could be a better story. He really does think you’re missing an angle.”   
  
“And you’re talking to Gold then?” Killian asked, nearly roaring at her when he snapped back around. Cora took a step away from him.

God fucking damnit

“How do you…” Cora started.

Killian shook his head. “He sent his lawyer here, didn’t he? Because you can’t risk the integrity of your site? Can’t have the article-reading public believing that the money is pulling all the strings, right? So how do you know Robert Gold, Cora?”

She snapped her jaw shut, an audible clack echoing through Regina’s office and Killian almost felt like he’d won something.

“Killian!”

He jerked his head up in just enough time to see red hair sprinting down the hallway and barreling past Cora and he barely had enough time to move his hands before Ariel crashed against his side. “God, A,” he groaned, wrapping his arm around her back and he could dimly make out the feel of a phone pressed against his chest.   
  
“Answer your phone,” she grumbled, talking mostly into her shoulder. Cora looked stunned.   
  
“I’m kind of busy.”   
  
Ariel stood back up, glancing around the room like she’d only just realized where she was, gasping softly when she noticed Cora and a still-furious looking Regina. “Ah,” she mumbled. “Well, um, this is important.”   
  
“We are in the middle of something,” Cora seethed. Ariel was not that easily intimidated.

She smiled brightly, unaware – or ignoring – the tone of the room complete. “You might be interested in this actually, Ms. Mills. I’m Ariel, by the way, your new...I don’t know what would we call me, exactly?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Killian groaned. Regina almost laughed. “If Gina would ever get you new business cards, you could maybe have some kind of title.”

“Don’t push it, Jones,” Regina warned as he slung his arm back around Ariel’s shoulder and flashed her a smile. “Although we really should figure out what to refer to you as, Ariel.”

Ariel waved a dismissive hand through the air, smile just as easy and enthusiastic and Cora looked like she’d been thrown into yet another alternate universe. Killian suddenly liked this one quite a bit more. “I came in here,” Ariel announced, rapping her knuckles against Killian’s shoulder to draw his attention. “Because the team is totally saving your ass.”  
  
“Excuse me?” he blinked.   
  
“Well, you were probably on track for your hits no matter what, but they kind of...took things into their own hands.”   
  
She pressed the phone harder against his shirt and Killian mumbled under his breath, prying her fingers away to glance down at the screen. He nearly fell over.

Anna’s Instagram was now completely team-branded, something that looked a bit like a new Widow’s Wail emblem on the top and another photo that promoted the brand-new social media presence of every single team member, including Emma. And every single photo had a link in it – to his story.

They were promo’ing the story and there was another link in the bio and Ariel was making jokes about that, but Killian was too busy trying to make sure his heart didn’t actually beat out of his chest and join his stomach on the floor.

“This is…” he said, and Ariel hummed in agreement.

“It absolutely is,” she said, pulling her phone back. “You were at 50K a little before noon. Care to venture a guess as to where you are now?”  
  
“More than that?”   
  
“Quadruple that. You should see the metrics. The chart doesn’t even exist anymore. Emma’s been trying to call you to tell you.”   
  
His heart felt like it was expanding until it seemed too big for his ribcage and it was the pleasant sort of pain he’d ever experienced. “Emma did this?” Killian breathed and Ariel didn’t even dignify the answer with an actual response.

“Obviously,” Regina muttered, clicking on things that were probably the website and letting out a low whistle when she, presumably, came on that metric Ariel had been talking about. “Holy shit,” she said. “This is incredible. It’s the biggest story we’ve had all month.”  
  
“It’s only the middle of November,” Cora said, and Killian had forgotten she was there. “This hardly means anything.”   
  
Killian scoffed and Regina didn’t look quite so nervous anymore and Ariel was practically bubbling over with something that felt a bit like the actual human embodiment of joy. “Please,” he said, shaking his head and taking a step back towards the door. “You’ve got nothing. People are clicking. You’re making money. You need me. You both do.”   
  
Cora’s eyes, somehow, got even darker and Killian knew he was pushing his luck and his career and a slew of other things, but he was _winning_ and he wasn’t really thinking.

“Tell me something, Mr. Jones,” Cora said softly, acid in her voice and what actually _felt_ like hate when she took a step towards him. “Have you gotten all the background from your team? Everything particularly _interesting_ about them? Because if this story is as good as you claim it is, then I can only imagine you’ve covered every angle, every nook and cranny of questioning. That is, after all, why we brought you on board, isn’t it? For your talents, as they were?”   
  
His heart stopped. And his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Ariel didn’t look quite as confident again.

Killian took a deep breath, determined to come up with some kind of scathing retort and it hit him as quickly as if he’d run into the idea itself. Emma. And Gold. And what he’d said to her on the sidewalk and the way her whole face had dropped at the words.

What had he said?

_Settled_.

Enough money to really settle.

He didn’t understand.

“My ability to do my job isn’t something you need to worry about, Cora,” Killian said, voice rising just a bit. “I’m getting you your hits and getting you angles. The process behind it isn’t any of your fucking business.”

Ariel gasped again and Regina might have humbled _oh my god_ under her breath, but Killian barely stood still long enough to consider either of those things, marching out of the office and tugging his phone out of his pocket.

He ignored the elevator again, slamming open the door to the stairwell and probably leaving a dent in the wall as his thumb tapped impatiently on Emma’s name. He still hadn’t read any of his text messages.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hey,” she said, and all his internal organs, metaphorical or otherwise, were back in his body and each of them _lurched_ at the sound of her voice.

“Was that your idea?” Killian asked.

“Was what my idea?”  
  
“The profiles and the links and driving up hits. We broke two hundred in less than twenty-four hours.”   
  
Emma laughed softly on the other end of the phone and it was enough to stop him from walking, sinking down onto one of the steps. “I mean, it was kind of a team effort, but I called the meeting and thought it might help. Two hundred seems like a lot of hits in less than twenty-four hours.”   
  
“That is a shit ton of hits, Swan,” Killian breathed, tugging on his hair to make sure he wasn’t actually dreaming. It hurt like hell and he could _feel_ Emma’s laugh in every inch of him.

“Is that the official term, then?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Ah, well, we’re some kind of team, right? A social media, journalism extravaganza of driving hits and interest and maybe fans who want to buy our shirts. I think it’s working out ok.”

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but it was too soon or too much, definitely too much, and Cora knew something and Gold had known something and even the _idea_ of Emma running, of those walls springing up in front of him again were enough to keep Killian from saying anything else.

Emma laughed again, easy and certain. There was a stair pressing into the back of his spine. “Are you downtown right now?” she asked. “Did Ariel tell you? Because you’re, like, incredibly bad at answering your phone. What if I was a source or something?”  
  
“Are you not a source, love?”   
  
“Eh, am I?”   
  
“Maybe a bit more than that.”   
  
“What a line,” Emma muttered, but he could picture the smile on her face and the exact shade of green in her eyes and the words were back, bigger and more meaningful and he bit his tongue to keep them from just falling out in the middle of the hallway.

That would have been awful.

Killian hummed, running a hand through his hair. “The honest truth, Swan. That was the deal, right?”

Emma didn’t answer immediately and he hadn’t really meant it like that, but Cora was...Cora. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need another angle.

He honestly didn’t care.

And he absolutely was not going to push.

“That wasn’t really supposed to sound as sinister as it did,” Killian muttered, and Emma let out a quiet exhale wherever she was. “And I’m sorry about the text messages, you and Scarlet can tag-team your frustration if you’re interested.”  
  
“What could Scarlet have to be angry about?”   
  
“I’m terrible at folding blankets.”   
  
She made a noise on the other end – a mix between laughter and something that sounded a bit like amusement and maybe something else that he was trying to ignore completely. God, he didn’t want to ignore that completely.

“Hey, what are you doing in...like two days?” Killian asked suddenly, groaning when he realized he’d all but shouted the words into his phone. The echo in that stairwell was awful. “You get days off or anything?”  
  
“It’s my team. Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

“Yeah, but that was you trying not to actually ask me out while asking me out. I’m turning the tables or something.”  
  
“Or something, huh,” Emma mumbled, but he could still hear her laugh and he was fairly confident she was still smiling. “I don’t remember referring to that as a date.”   
  
“Swan, there was a decided amount of kissing involved. Seems to throw us starkly into the date territory, doesn’t it?”   
  
“I wasn’t aware of the rules.”   
  
“They’re there, love, I promise,” Killian grinned, and he would have bet a considerable amount of money that she was rolling her eyes. He heard Ruby shout something in the background and she was at Granny’s. “Are you practicing right now?”   
  
Emma clicked her tongue. “Taking a break. ‘Ish.”  
  
“You didn’t have to do that, Swan. Don’t let me interrupt.”   
  
“I was trying to get you to answer your phone,” Emma pointed out, and he didn’t really have an argument for that. “And we’re allowed breaks. Ruby would kill me otherwise.”   
  
“That’s accurate,” Ruby shouted in the background, Anna calling out something else that weren’t quite words. “Hey, Jones! Did you see our fancy new social media strategy?”   
  
There was a muffled sound on the other end and the phone very clearly changed hands, Anna’s voice coming into clear focus. He was on speaker phone. “Jones,” Ruby continued intently. “You’ve got to answer these questions in a timely fashion. How come you didn’t fold the blanket in Scarlet’s apartment?”   
  
“Was that the same question as before?” Killian asked, and Ruby growled at him. He smiled, twisting slightly to rest his back on the wall. “In order, Lucas, yes, I saw your fancy new social media strategy, I think it’s a fantastic idea and you all have gotten us to the top of the leaderboard on _Caller_ stories this month, so, you know, job well done. And, your second, why do you know anything about my blanket-folding strategies?”   
  
“Scarlet was very quick to complain when you didn’t answer your phone. He and Anna are...whatever.” Ruby paused, likely turning towards Anna when she shouted, “Anna are you and Scarlet dating?”   
  
“Eh,” Anna answered, and it sounded like both Elsa and Belle groaned. Tink laughed. Loudly.   
  
“Wait, wait,” Emma cut in and Killian wished he wasn’t on speaker. “Did you say we were at the top of some leaderboard?”   
  
Killian nodded. “Well, I don’t know if there’s an actual leaderboard or not, but Ariel just told me that we’re the top story for the month.”   
  
“You said we.”   
  
“Isn’t it? Some kind of team, right love?”

Ruby growled again or maybe groaned and probably stuck her tongue out for good measure. Killian grinned in the middle of an empty stairwell. “This is disgusting,” Ruby announced. The phone slid across what was probably the bar and Emma let out a string of words that would have made Mary Margaret blush.

He heard footsteps and the sound of a door closing and, at least, six car horns. She’d gone outside. “You’re not on speaker anymore,” Emma said softly. “Or around prying ears.”  
  
“Can ears pry?” Killian asked. God, it was easy to talk to her. It felt like breathing or waking up or something absurdly romantic when they were in the middle of events that included a murder board and unfolded blankets.

“I have no idea. And I don’t really care. Were you serious about this leaderboard thing?”  
  
“Deathly.”   
  
“That’s not funny.”   
  
“It was a little funny.” Emma groaned, but he wasn’t sure if that was because of absolutely horrible jokes or the cab that seemed to be honking directly at her. “But, honestly, Swan. Top of the board halfway through November is a...it’s more than I thought when I came here. So, thank you. Really.”   
  
Emma made a noise, confusion obvious in the sound and Killian’s heart thudded against his rib cage. “What could you possibly be thanking me for?” 

For being here and making coming home worth it and believing – but that would have sounded absurd out loud. He didn’t say that. “Everything,” Killian breathed, and that sounded just a bit absurd too.

“It’s going to work,” Emma said. “I’m plagiarizing the conversation again.”  
  
“I almost don’t care.”   
  
“Almost?”   
  
“Ah, well, I’ve got those journalism ethics to worry about, love.”   
  
“Were you ever going to ask your follow-up?”

He couldn’t remember. He’d been distracted by her plan and her ideas and her entire goddamn team and, well, everything. “Killian,” Emma prompted, jerking him out of thoughts and directly into the wall he was leaning against. He hissed when his head collided with plaster, teeth sinking into his lip as he tried not to start shouting into the phone. “What just happened?”  
  
“Two days,” Killian mumbled. “What are you doing in two days? At some point in the afternoon and possibly evening.”   
  
“Afternoon into evening?” Emma asked. “Got lots of plans, huh?”   
  
“A few. And I really don’t want to hear about how pissed off Scarlet is that I don’t know how to fold a blanket anymore.”   
  
“I’m not sure I can figure out how those two things are connected.”

“They’re not really,” KIllian sighed, suddenly just a bit terrified and maybe this was pushing. This was absolutely pushing.

“Killian,” Emma said when they’d been sitting in silence on opposite ends of the city for far longer than was acceptable for one phone conversation. “Is something going on?”  
  
“What? No, why would you think that something was going on?”   
  
“Because you’re harping on this blanket thing a lot and you’re usually not quite that bad about answering your text messages. You’re not ever particularly timely, which is kind of weird for someone whose life is lived on deadlines, but you’re not usually just ignoring me.”   
  
“I wasn’t ignoring you, Swan.”   
  
“So then tell me what’s actually going on.”

He took a deep breath, the sudden surplus of oxygen in his lungs almost burning and there was that word again, flashing in front of his vision like he was standing in the middle of Times Square – everything.

He wanted to tell her everything, promise her everything, ask her everything he’d wondered since he’d walked into Granny’s months ago.

Not yet.

“See, this isn’t the talking thing I was suggesting,” Emma laughed, but it wasn’t as genuine as it had been before. Killian squeezed his eyes closed, that self loathing he was prone to, but had been able to avoid whenever she was around, feeling like it had flooded the stairwell.

“I’m sorry, love.”  
  
“That’s the second apology I’ve gotten today. I feel like I should be keeping my own leaderboard or something.”   
  
Killian laughed, eyes still closed and head still resting against the wall and if there was a flood, he should, at least, try to tread water. “I’m going to move out of Scarlet’s apartment,” he explained. “Soon. Preferably sooner rather than later so one of us doesn’t actually murder the other over blankets or the dishes.”   
  
“Are you trying to tell me you’re mad about the dishes?”   
  
“He’s just so bad at them, Swan. It’s incredible that he hasn’t actually died under a pile of dirty dishes yet or just succumbed to scurvy or something from a complete inability to clean his dishes.”   
  
“Isn’t scurvy from a lack of vitamin C?” Emma asked, and he was a little stunned she was still putting up with this conversation. Killian was the one prolonging it and even he was getting frustrated with himself. He just wanted to keep talking to her. “And like...pirates?”   
  
“I think it was more than pirates, love. I think it was just most people in the eighteenth century.”  
  
“Why do you know that?”   
  
“You brought up pirates.”   
  
“God, this conversation is a trip.”

He barely heard her over the sound of another horn honking and Emma muttered something under her breath, cursing a cab driver to what he thought sounded like the fifth level of hell. “Swan, are you quoting Dante in the middle of Midtown?” Killian asked, sure he’d never stop being absolutely astounded by her. “And are you in the middle of the street?”

“That’s David’s fault,” Emma grumbled, just a bit breathless. “The Dante. Not the almost being run over, but go ahead and blame him too for deciding to live here.”  
  
“Where does Dante fit into this?”

“Are you interviewing me?”  
  
“No,” Killian responded quickly. “I am constantly interested in you, Swan.”   
  
She let out a shaky laugh and he almost hoped she was blushing. “He had to read _The Inferno_ when he was in college,” she said, “and it was whole huge research project and I wasn’t in the classes or anything, but he complained about it all the time and he needed help because English was so _not_ his thing, so I read the whole thing in between shifts and even sometimes during shifts and I helped him figure out what to write and he totally got an ‘A’ and now I quote it all the time. Mostly to drive him insane, but also because I kind of enjoyed it.”   
  
“You are absolutely incredible, do you know that?” Killian asked, the words tumbling out of him quickly and honestly and well before he could stop himself.

Emma exhaled loudly, a disbelieving sound that he was going to do his best to erase from her vocabulary. “That’s two apologies and two absurdly charming things, Jones,” she mumbled. “Are you going for some kind of a record?”  
  
“Just the truth, love. Why were you in the middle of the street?”   
  
“All that talk of scurvy got me hungry. I’m going to buy a slice.”   
  
“I don’t think that’ll prevent scurvy.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you think scurvy comes from not washing your dishes, so I don’t think you’re an accredited source in this situation,” she accused. “And you’re still not actually answering my questions. What is this thing that’s happening in two days?”   
  
“Did we not cover that?”   
  
“You are infuriating.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that today, actually,” Killian laughed, and the door slammed in the stairwell, his head jerking up at the sound. Ariel rolled her eyes at him, one side of her mouth tugged up. “And what is happening in two days is me looking at a dozen apartments so I don’t actually kill Scarlet.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And,” he parroted, stomach filled with nerves again and he couldn’t look at Ariel. “I was wondering if you wanted to come with me. If you don’t have to practice.”   
  
“I don’t have to practice.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Emma said, the word out in a heartbeat and Killian was, apparently, counting things in heartbeats now.

Liam should come back and haunt him just to make sure he stopped being the absolutely dumbest person in the world.

“So...that’s a yes, then?”

Emma might have laughed or she might have just ordered a slice of mushroom pizza and Ariel was still standing at the top of the staircase. “Yeah,” Emma answered. “That’s a yes. I’m, well, I’m pretty well versed in finding habitable apartments, so, you know, you’re bringing in an expert.”  
  
“Noted. Although if you try and eat mushroom pizza in front of me, I’m not sure we can keep doing this, love.”   
  
“You have a problem with mushroom pizza?”   
  
“That isn’t even pizza anymore. That’s just...a travesty.”   
  
“Why do you feel so strongly about this?”   
  
Because cheese pizza was cheap and the lunch deals at the shacks that dotted the city were more than enough to keep him fed for most of the day and it came with soda that always felt like some kind of actual treasure, but they’d already done the pirate joke and talking about childhood trauma probably would have ruined the mood.

“New York exists for pizza, Swan,” Killian said, bypassing _depressing_ as quickly as possible. “Greasy, cheesy, pizza. There’s no room for vegetables in that equation.”   
  
“You’ve put some thought into this.”   
  
“I grew up here. I’ve had some time.”   
  
“Tell you what, two days from now, we go look at these apartments and I bring you non-Starbucks coffee and you take me somewhere that has this non-vegetable pizza. Deal?”   
  
Killian’s face was going to cramp up if he kept smiling like that. Ariel looked like she was on some kind of metaphorical cloud. “It’s a date, love,” he said, and he hadn’t really meant to say that, but he kind of did and well...it was out there now.

“It’s a date,” Emma repeated. “Lincoln Center? Again?”  
  
“Deal. Two o’clock. Again.”   
  
“Deal. And, hey, Killian...the, uh, the story was really good. If that’s the one that gets to five hundred, then it was worth the wait.”   
  
He was never going to be able to breathe again. “I’ll see you in two days, Swan.”   
  
“Ok,” she said softly, the phone clicking on the other end.

Killian chanced a glance at Ariel, who was beaming at him like he’d just figured out the theory of relativity or won a Pulitzer. “You’re an idiot,” she said, and he blinked once. “And Regina is super pissed about your deal with Cora. But you look happy.”  
  
“I am.”   
  
“Good. C’mon, let’s go design business cards. I’m tired of just being referred to as your assistant. That’s insulting.”   
  
Killian didn’t argue when he followed her back out of the stairwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again! Back and still trying to figure out how I was able to consume so much food at Disney. I ate so much food at Disney, guys. Thanks, as always, for sticking with this mess of words and feelings and not-really-about-video-games crime drama. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you guys clicking and reading. It's real nice. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	18. Chapter 18

Emma wasn’t nervous.

That would have been absurd. Decidedly. Absurd and ridiculous and a slew of other adjectives that she couldn’t really think of because she was absolutely nervous and kind of excited and way too early.

It was barely even quarter of two.

She was pacing in the middle of Lincoln Center with a fountain behind her and a group of tourists a few feet away and a tour guide who was, very clearly, reading from a script regarding the history of the Metropolitan Opera.

Emma was absolutely eavesdropping on that. It was distracting her from the wave of emotions she was trying to tread water in. That tour guide was awful. They were probably reading off index cards.

“The Metropolitan Opera didn’t move to Lincoln Center until 1996, nearly one hundred years after its inception...with a capacity of approximately 3,800...the orchestra pit can be decreased if necessary offering another thirty-five seats...of course the acoustics in the theatre are excellent.”  
  
Emma snorted, sitting on the edge of the fountain behind her and clutching the coffee cups in her hands a bit tighter – if only to try and keep her hands from freezing off.

She should really buy gloves.

“Something funny, Swan?”  
  
She looked up to find Killian smiling at her, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and jeans that were just _unfair_ , hair ruffled from the wind that never seemed to stop blowing no matter how many skyscrapers Manhattan boasted.

“Are you listening to this?” she asked, nodding back towards the crowds of tourists and chancing a look at the tour guide who was, absolutely, reading off index cards.

Killian shook his head. “Should I be?”  
  
“Obviously. This is awful. I don’t think that tour guide has changed inflection once in the last twenty years.”   
  
“Twenty years? You’ve been sitting here for twenty years?”   
  
“Take my exaggerated point for what it is, please.”   
  
He nodded seriously, the smile just as wide and just as genuine and any idea of nerves seemed to audibly morph into excitement and contentment and something Emma still wasn't willing to put a name to quite yet because they were absolutely breaking all the rules.

“Right, right,” Killian agreed, taking the coffee from Emma’s outstretched hands. Jeez, his hands were warm.

That probably wasn’t a sign.

“Alright,” he continued, eyes flitting back towards the group and another fact about the dimensions of the _world famous_ murals inside the opera house. “So, you haven’t been sitting here for twenty years, but you’ve already developed a fairly strong opinion on the tour guide.”

“Was that a question?”  
  
“No.”   
  
“Are you listening to this? This is not a good tour. How much do you think these people paid for this tour?”   
  
Killian shrugged, lower lip incredibly distracting when it stuck out just a bit and Emma took a swig of coffee that burnt the back of her throat. “Thirty bucks?” he ventured, and Emma felt her jaw actually drop.

“For that crap?”  
  
“I had no idea you’d be so invested in tourists being ripped off, love. It’s New York. Everything’s expensive. That’s just how it works.” He took a sip of coffee, humming softly and his gaze fell back on her, a shockwave of feeling shooting down Emma’s spine. “This is good. Where’d you get it?”

“That holiday market thing in Columbus Circle,” Emma answered distractedly, twisting slightly to keep the tourists in her line of vision. “You really think all those people paid thirty bucks to be herded around a public place?”  
  
“They don’t know how else to see places like this. They’ve got to be directed. You really went to that holiday market? Wasn’t that a disaster?”   
  
Emma shook her head, brushing a stray piece of hair away from her eyes and the group was moving again, something about an annual spring tour following the season in New York. “It’s Tuesday, it wasn’t that bad and that cart had all those fancy drinks,” she muttered. “And God, you’re really a pessimist, aren’t you?”   
  
“About the holiday market or the tourists and being ripped off?”   
  
“Either or.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian admitted softly, and the word seemed to linger in the minimal amount of space between them. Emma widened her eyes, trying to smile and not sure it really worked until she stood up and rested her free hand on the front of his jacket.

“You are ridiculously warm all the time, you know that?” she asked, and this was the strangest conversation she’d ever had.

“Probably the world trying to find a balance in the force or something. Between all that pessimism and everything.”  
  
“Jeez, was that actually a _Star Wars_ reference?”   
  
Killian grinned, barely giving her a moment to question anything else before ducking his head and kissing her. Emma was still holding coffee and he was still holding coffee and the tourists were unnaturally loud – all of them trying to get a photo in front of the apparently _world famous_ fountain and they were just standing there making out.

In public.

Again.

Emma pushed up lightly on her toes, fingers tracing over the back of his neck and trying to keep him there next to her, if only because he was as warm as she promised he was and it was absolutely freezing. She could feel Killian’s smile against her mouth, the quiet laugh that seemed to work its way through every inch of her and his left hand on her hip, keeping her steady in the middle of Lincoln Center.

“I’ve had an idea,” Killian mumbled against her and she made a noise that might have actually been an attempt at a question. “I think we should sneak into this tour group.”

Emma pulled back slightly, appreciating his slight whine when she moved, but he didn’t let go of her waist. “What? Don’t you have apartments to move in to?”  
  
“I’m not moving into more than one, love.”   
  
“Whatever,” she rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean and don’t you have, like, a realtor or someone? Or a schedule? How is there not a plan for this?”   
  
“I’m a little wounded that you think I would actually pay money for a realtor in a city that I have absolutely memorized. I know what I’m looking for. I don’t need to pay commission for it.”

“Then why am I here?” Emma asked, the question falling out of her before she realized the implication of it and maybe she hadn’t extinguished all those nerves quite yet.

_An orphan’s an orphan._

Killian narrowed his eyes slightly, eyeing Emma like he’d never quite seen anyone like her. She bit her lip, toes curling in her boots and maybe she didn’t need to actually buy gloves if he kept staring at her like that.

“Because I asked,” he said evenly and, well, that was true. “And where’s your sense of adventure, Swan? You already braved a holiday market in a major tourist destination, you’re telling me that you don’t want to go undercover in some overpriced tour? Think of the story.”  
  
Emma laughed lightly, taking a sip of coffee and it was still warm and that felt like a sign too. She was clearly spending too much time with Mary Margaret. “Is it always about the story, then?” she asked.

“Absolutely always,” he promised, pressing a kiss to her forehead and twisting her slightly towards the back of the group which had, finally, finished its photo shoot. “It’ll be fun. We might even learn something.”  
  
“God forbid.”   
  
“Come on,” Killian muttered, slinging his arm around her shoulders and Emma was moving before she’d said another word.

The group itself was enormous – and they brought the average age down by at least, forty-two years, but Killian couldn’t seem to stop smiling and Emma found herself somewhere close to enthused just by looking at him, eyes a bit brighter than usual and actually looking as if he was _determined_ to learn something.

They stayed in the back, half a step behind an elderly couple and a woman who was actually wearing a fanny pack unironically, three shopping bags in one hand and a jacket that likely cost Emma’s base video game salary on.

“Does she think she’s actually going to the opera?” Emma whispered, leaning her head towards Killian’s. He hummed in confusion before his eyes landed on the woman in front of them and his laugh drew, at least, four stares from the group.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to accessorize like that at the Met.”

“Don’t you know?”  
  
“The dress code for the Met?” he asked, and Emma nodded, following the group as they moved into the actual lobby of the building and her eyes nearly fell out of her head.

She didn’t know where to look, couldn’t find one thing to pinpoint her gaze on and she was probably drawing attention – proving how much they absolutely did not belong in that thirty-dollars-a-ticket group because no one else seemed as stunned by the giant chandeliers hanging from the ceiling or the sweeping staircase in front of them.

“Impressive, right?” Killian muttered.

She didn’t even have to turn to know that he was smiling at her and Emma wasn’t sure if he meant the giant chandeliers or her reaction to them. She was more prone to picking the second and that left her stomach flipping and flopping and several other things that did not belong in that absurdly fancy lobby.

“How much do you think these chandeliers cost?” Emma asked, finally pulling her eyes away from what might have actually been several tons of crystal. Or possibly diamonds. She should listen to the tour guide.

“You’re very concerned with the cost of things, aren’t you, Swan?”  
  
Emma shrugged – her stomach, wherever it did or didn’t belong, twisting at the genuine concern in his voice and they were treading on emotional backstory that was absolutely crossing some kind of line.

Even if this was a date.

Especially if this was a date.

“Curious,” she corrected, tapping her finger on his chest.

Killian nodded and they were both doing an absolutely horrible job of listening to the monotone tour guide after risking...something to sneak into that tour. He held out of his coffee, nodding towards it when Emma didn’t immediately understand. “I need my hand, love,” he said and she wished her stomach would just relax.

She nodded quickly, pulling the cup away while he tugged his phone out of his back pocket and started tapping, letting out a quiet _ha_ when he seemed to find what he was looking for.

“This was a very quick search and apparently not quite timely,” he started, “because this story is actually a year old, but the chandeliers are…” Killian paused, eyes skimming across the screen and thumb scrolling down and Emma wished the tour guide would talk louder so no one could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.

“Oh they’re crystals,” Killian murmured, like he was genuinely interested in chandeliers and not just catering to Emma’s strange whim and complete obsession with how much things cost. She was kind of bitter.

“That’s not an exact monetary figure, counselor,” Emma pointed out. Killian’s left hand snaked back to her side, drifting across the curve of her hip and back around her waist and she was fairly positive he didn't even realize he was doing it.

“They’re called sputniks,” he continued, ignoring her quiet jab with a smile on his face. “For Russia. That’s weird, right?”  
  
“Ah, well, they opened here in 1966. That’s just timely.”   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
Emma shrugged, heat rising in her cheeks and she bit her lip again. “The tour guide mentioned it when I was sitting outside.”   
  
“Perceptive, Swan.”   
  
“I thought that was your gig.”   
  
“I’m open to a multi-tiered marquee,” Killian grinned. “Only because I like you though.”

It was a simple sentence. A few words. Probably no more than a joke or an attempt at a joke, but Emma felt her throat go dry and her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth and the chandeliers were so goddamn sparkly.

Killian’s eyes flickered up towards her, a wary look on his face like he’d overstepped that line that they’d been ignoring for months and backtracking over and tripping over and maybe it wasn’t a joke.

“That’s still not a price tag,” Emma said softly, and Killian exhaled, nodding as his hand kept drawing out nonsense on her back.

“That is true, love, although I doubt they’d actually put the cost on the internet. Encourage theft or something.”  
  
“Who is breaking into the Metropolitan Opera House?”

“Aside from us?”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she couldn't quite stop herself from _falling_ over that line again, ignoring it completely and, God, she liked him too.

A lot.

She liked him a lot.

“Yeah,” she admitted, head falling against his shoulder when he tugged her back to his side and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “Aside from us. So, crystals, huh? You didn’t just know that by default?”  
  
“Do you think I just know about crystals, Swan? Or chandeliers?”   
  
“I have no idea. You’re the one who said they came here all the time. I just figured you snuck into operas and...knew things.”   
  
“Knew things,” Killian repeated skeptically, drawing the ire of the fanny-pack sporting tourists. He laughed under his breath. “You know, Swan, that’s the second time in the last ten minutes you’ve just assumed a fact about me and the Opera. I’m not sure you’re picturing my childhood correctly at all.”

It clicked quickly – Emma rolling her shoulders against him when she stood back up to her full height and made some kind of ridiculous noise that might have been surprise or just disbelief. “You’ve never been inside this place have you?”

Killian grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly and the lopsided smile that wasn’t quite a smirk, but seemed to work better than the smirk ever had and Emma’s heart was beating out some kind of staccato rhythm that any opera star would have been able to harmonize with.

“Not once,” he said simply. “Not exactly a lot of time for that, you know, in between...everything else.”  
  
“Everything else?”

“That’s a decidedly sad story, Swan.”

“Doesn’t make me any less interested,” Emma said, and Killian blinked twice, like he was trying to make sure she hadn’t just disappeared at some point.

The tourists were muttering around them, more shutters snapping and posed photos that would end up on every social media site in the world and they were both too busy staring at each other – and not actually discussing depressing childhood backstories – to hear the tour guide walking up to them, frustration obvious in every step.

“Excuse me,” he said sharply, and Emma knew it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get their attention.

Emma spun on the spot, eyes wide and Killian’s arm still twisted around her to find herself face to face with a Lincoln Center polo and a glare that probably could have turned her to stone if the man had been trying just a bit harder.

“You can’t have drinks in here,” the tour guide continued. Killian’s whole body shook against Emma’s as she pulled her lips back behind her teeth to stop herself from cackling in the middle of that absurdly decorated lobby.

“Of course, of course,” she said, elbowing Killian when he didn’t stop laughing. “I’m so sorry. We...totally weren’t paying attention.”  
  
“Right.”   
  
“Is there a garbage somewhere?”

“This is the Met.”  
  
“Was that an answer?”   
  
Killian started laughing again and Emma was fairly certain she felt him kiss the top of her hair – the tour guide’s eyes flashed up and she still hadn’t moved, an empty cup clutched in her hand.

“I have a couple of questions,” Killian said suddenly, and Emma nearly collapsed on the carpet. She twisted, gaping at him over her shoulder and she couldn’t imagine the punishment for breaking into tours and bringing hot beverages into the Met was particularly _bad_ , but she couldn’t quite believe he was tempting fate like that.

He did something absurd with his eyebrows, a slight turn to his mouth that left her just a bit breathless – even when she hadn’t moved.

The tour guide – his name was Spencer, it said so on his name tag – crossed his arms lightly, rocking back on his heels and staring at Killian like he was the only person who’d ever had a single question. He probably was.

“What can I help you with?” Spencer asked.

Killian glanced at Emma before he asked, smile wide and certain and just a bit _easier_ than anything she’d seen since all of this started. “If you had to guess, how much would you say those chandeliers are worth?”

Spencer didn’t have an answer, but between him and Killian they decided they must be insured somewhere in the millions if only because of their meaning to the Opera and New York City as a whole. The questions didn’t end there. He asked about the carpet and the design and the dress code for the goddamn Metropolitan Opera, flashing a smile Emma’s direction every few moments and he didn’t move his arm once.

Spencer looked overjoyed to be part of the discussion, promising _it was so nice to talk to you_ when Killian claimed to have run out of questions.

“I hope to see you two again,” Spencer enthused, the rest of the group filing into the gift shop once the tour was over and they hadn’t been allowed in the main theatre, but he made sure to point out that there were more chandeliers there as well. “There are some incredible productions on the schedule this season.”

Emma scoffed at that and she’d bitten her lip at some point, doing her best not to laugh at even the idea of attending the opera, let alone attending the opera with Killian Jones – who was determined to get her answers to her questions.

“Of course,” Killian said knowingly, holding his right hand out expectantly at Spencer. God, they shook hands. After discussing chandeliers for twenty minutes. “Thanks so much for putting up with my line of questioning.”  
  
“I enjoyed it.”

“I’m sure we’ll be back.”  
  
“Well, if you’re ever looking for a chance to get backstage, I do tours of the House on weekdays, usually around four o’clock.”

Killian nodded, a look on his face that made it seem as if they were going to do just that and for half a moment Emma forgot about Robert Gold and lines and ethics and she wanted to take backstage tours with her maybe-boyfriend and pretend like she was the kind of person who went to the opera.

It was kind of nice.

“Thanks so much,” Killian said again, moving his hand back towards Emma’s shoulders and the back of her neck and she didn’t try to lean into it, but it would have been pretending to suggest anything different. “C’mon, love, let’s get out of Spencer’s hair.”  
  
Emma laughed again, falling into step with Killian as they moved back towards the fountain and away from the tourists and a still-waving Spencer. “I can’t believe you asked him eight-hundred questions,” she muttered as soon as the doors closed behind them.

“You wanted to know about cost,” Killian reasoned. “And I’m not sure I totally agree with that million dollar mark. They’re fancy, sure, but they’re not even diamonds. I mean…”  
  
He didn’t finish.

She didn’t let him finish.

And they should really stop making out in public places.

Maybe if Killian actually got an apartment. That was a totally different conversation.

As it was, they’d spent the last forty-five minutes in a tour group they hadn’t paid for, muttering assumptions about fanny-pack sporting tourists and questioning Spencer the tour guide like he was the top source in a multi-story feature series and Emma didn’t even allow herself to consider what she was feeling before she was just _doing_ , arms slung over Killian’s shoulders and toes pressed into concrete and if he kept making that noise they were never going to actually move.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, pressing kisses against the side of his lips and across his jaw and she heard some tourist actually mumble something about _public displays_ as they walked by. And then promptly took a photo in front of the fountain.

“I’ll be honest if that’s the kind of response I’m going to get for giving into my naturally curious tendencies, Swan, then you’re never going to get me to stop asking questions,” Killian said, ducking his head and kissing her again before she could follow up with her own vaguely sarcastic retort.

“You really never went inside before?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I might not know the dress code, but I am fairly certain that I did not own a single piece of clothing that would have gotten me past security. Also, Liam wouldn’t have ever let me in.”  
  
“Not much for high-brow culture?”   
  
“Oh, no, the exact opposite. He worked security at Lincoln Center the same summer he worked at Shea.”   
  
Emma made a face – somewhere between stunned and surprised and so goddamn curious she was positive it was the only emotion she’d ever feel again. “You keep giving me all these tidbits of story,” she said, lacing her fingers through Killian’s when they started walking again.

“That’s because it’s depressing, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re a story tease or something. And I don’t know about that, Liam sounds like a pretty solid older brother as far as older brothers go.”

She didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until her arm nearly jerked out of its socket. Emma turned to find him frozen solid, lips parted and eyes wide, staring at her like...something she couldn’t find a word for.

It sent a wave of heat through her whole body and Emma licked her lips, trying, and failing, to take a deep breath. She had no idea how long they stood there, probably only a few minutes, but it could have been a whole other tour of Lincoln Center and the tourists were loud and there was definitely a Waffles and Dinges stand nearby because the air suddenly smelled like chocolate and maybe that was a sign too.

She didn’t know for what, but chocolate-air seemed like it was good.

“What?” Emma breathed, taking a step forward to preserve her current arm-in-socket life. Killian blinked again, shaking his head slightly and exhaling loudly.

“He was,” Killian said, answering the first question. “Liam, I mean. He was...he didn’t deserve any of that.”  
  
“The sad story?”   
  
“An exceptionally sad story.”   
  
“Two security jobs in two different boroughs is pretty impressive.”   
  
“It is,” he agreed. “I still can’t figure out how he got back and forth. It’s, like, four different trains and two busses. I wasn’t that old...eight or so and I didn’t really understand, but he used to bring me with him. Down here when he was working events, especially the outdoor ones. He could kind of keep an eye out on me while he was still working and try and pass it off as culture and I wouldn’t be home by myself.”

He glanced around like he was looking back twenty years and his whole chest moved when he took a deep breath. “There used to be a cart that’d park right across the street from The Empire and they’d give me a can of Pepsi whenever Liam brought me down here. Knew I didn’t…”  
  
Emma swallowed, blinking so she wouldn’t do something ridiculous like start crying in the middle of Lincoln Center and Killian stared at her with something that felt a bit like terror and just a hint of trepidation. “Didn’t have the money,” she finished, and he nodded quickly.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Exactly that. So, he’d bring me down here and they’d show operas and sometimes ballets on some kind of big screen and, God, I hated it. It was the worst thing I could be doing as an eight year old, but there wasn’t anyone home and I had to go somewhere. Plus, you know, Pepsi. So….”  
  
Emma laughed softly, resting her hands flat on his jacket and she wondered when that just became a _thing_ she did. She couldn't remember deciding to do it, had never done anything like that before – even with….that didn’t matter.

But, with Killian, it was like there was a magnet there and she kept finding herself pressing her hands on his chest and his shirt and that absurdly attractive leather jacket, like she was trying to make sure he was still there, to feel the steady pull of his breathing and the way he moved underneath her.

Or maybe just his heartbeat.

She really needed to stop spending so much time with Mary Margaret.

“You know Chuck Bass owned this hotel?” Emma asked, wincing when she realized how absolutely insane she sounded.

Killian’s lips twitched and he quirked an eyebrow at her, resting his hands on either side of her waist. “I’m sorry, who? And are we still talking about The Empire?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded, tugging self consciously on the end of her hair. Killian pulled it away. “Um...Chuck Bass? On Gossip Girl? He bought The Empire after they graduated from high school. To impress his dad. Who was a ghost at one point, I think. I don’t really remember that storyline.”   
  
She’d probably think about the sound of his answering laugh for several days, at least, and maybe that was the moment – when she started stammering and stuttering about absurd Gossip Girl plots to distract Killian from his self-proclaimed depressing childhood and that might have been when she realized she was absolutely in love with him.

Well, damn.

“Are you a secret Gossip Girl fan, Swan?” Killian asked, gaze not quite as clouded when he looked at her.

“It’s definitely not a secret. Ask M’s or Ruby. They’ll be more than willing to go into sordid detail about my CW-watching past. It’s really M’s fault anyway. She’s all about those kind of romances and Ruby lives for that absurd drama. I was just an innocent bystander at first.”  
  
“At first?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “It was kind of a thing during school. Well, while they were in school, at least. We’d get a ton of junk food and make a ton of frozen snacks and drink wine coolers and watch absurd dramas. David acted like he absolutely wasn’t invested, but no one was more upset with the way Gossip Girl ended than he was.”   
  
“And how did Gossip Girl end?”   
  
“It was Dan the whole time, can you believe that?”   
  
“I absolutely cannot.”   
  
“Neither could David. Make fun of him about it the next time you see him, ok?”

Well, damn. Again.

Killian didn’t miss a beat, just squeezed his right hand where it was still resting on her side and smiled at her like she’d just announced she’d gotten him a lifetime supply of free Pepsi. “I’ll make sure to keep that in mind, love,” he said softly, but Emma heard each word as clearly as if he’d shouted them. “You want to walk further uptown or you want to take a cab?”  
  
“You know I’ve heard rumors about your cab hailing skills. Ruby was very upset that you were able to get something quicker than she was that one time.”   
  
“It’s all in the arm, you’ve got to kind of twist your elbow so you get the right angle.”   
  
“That sounds painful.”   
  
“Is that a yes to the cab then?”

Emma shook her head. “Nah, I’ve never been uptown, remember? If you promise not to let me actually freeze to death, then I don’t see why we can’t just walk.”  
  
He beamed at her.

“I absolutely promise not to let you freeze to death, Swan.”

It took about twenty-blocks in the freezing cold before Emma started to regret her decision. Her teeth hadn’t started chattering yet, but she was fairly sure it was only a matter of time or a few more blocks and Killian kept glancing at her whenever she shivered.

“Swan, we can still get a cab,” he said, not for the first time. She brushed him off, trying to find a street sign and that was kind of pointless because she didn’t really know where they were heading and she had no concept of how long a city block actually was.

Enough for her toes to freeze, apparently.

“Where are we even?” Emma asked, and it was quieter wherever it was that they were, tree-lined streets and wide-open sidewalks that were the exact opposite of everything she’d come to assume New York was.

“Uptown,” Killian answered easily, a wide smile on his face when he turned back towards Emma.

She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the most generic response you could possibly give me,” she groaned, sarcasm dripping off every letter. “Is it always like it up here?”  
  
“Where?”   
  
“Uptown.”   
  
Killian laughed again, tugging Emma against his side tightly as they kept walking up the block – far-too-early Christmas decorations in the windows and restaurants and more wine stores than the twenty city blocks they’d walked could ever hope to need.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, voice just a bit softer than it had been all day and Emma knew there was a story there too. “Absolutely always. Easier to breathe, isn’t it?”  
  
Emma hummed, not quite sure how to answer _that_ question and they finally walked by a street sign – 77th and Columbus and another street fair and vendors and it was still, somehow, quiet, like no one wanted to disrupt anyone else.

“What is that?” Emma asked, nodding towards the monstrosity of the building to their right, families sitting on the dozen benches in the tiny park with bags of food everywhere. “God, did they all just go to the same restaurant?”  
  
“In order of asking, that’s the Museum of Natural History and, yes, kind of, but mostly because people come up here for two reasons.”   
  
“Which are?”   
  
“Well, three,” Killian amended quickly, weaving through kids and scooters and even more bags of food. “The aforementioned quiet, or possibly the trees, the dinosaurs and, most importantly, Shake Shack.”

“Shake Shack,” Emma repeated skeptically and Killian made a noise in the back of his throat that practically screamed _obviously_. Every single brown paper bag in a twenty-foot radius had Shake Shake emblazoned on the side. “What is that?”   
  
Killian groaned, nearly running into a kid who was still sporting wheelies and Emma was momentarily worried they’d actually time traveled. “Swan, you’ve got to be kidding me. First you tell me you’ve never been farther uptown than Lincoln Center and now you’re telling me you don’t even know about Shake Shack? There’s one a few blocks away from your apartment.”   
  
“That’s not my apartment,” Emma pointed out, regretting the way her voice turned as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “Why are you so upset about…” She pressed up, using his shoulder as leverage to see what it was the kid in wheelies was eating. “Cheeseburgers?”

“It’s not the cheeseburgers, love, it is the fries.”  
  
“You’re serious about this?” she asked, laughing when she saw the look on his face.

“I wouldn't joke about fries. And neither would Henry and Roland who are each fiercely devoted to the dinosaurs and Shake Shack french fries. We’re taking a detour, love.”  
  
They waited in line for twenty minutes – two orders of fries _because one has to have cheese, obviously, Swan_ and Emma couldn’t bring herself to argue when Killian smiled at her like that, bright and confident and she kept getting bits and pieces of a story that might not be nearly as depressing as he claimed it was.

They walked to the front of the museum, tugging open the doors long enough see the dinosaur in the lobby before a security guard actually yelled at them about bringing food inside. “We’re not coming inside, relax,” Killian promised, grinning at Emma conspiratorially.

“You are a terrible influence,” Emma muttered, but the fries were, admittedly, pretty delicious and she hadn’t argued the detour or the way he held her just a bit tighter against his him when he threw his hand out and hailed a cab.

It stopped in front of them immediately.

“And way too talented for your own good,” she added, sliding into the backseat when Killian opened the door.

He chuckled lightly, giving an address to the driver and Emma took a deep breath – the heat of the car hitting her immediately and sending goosebumps up her arm or maybe that was the hand on her thigh and the bits and pieces of Killian Jones she was starting to accumulate that afternoon.

“So,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound like the start of the inquisition it might have been. Killian lifted his eyebrows, stealing a fry from her and twisting his eyebrows when she objected. “Where are we going now?”  
  
“Uptown,” Killian answered again, muttering something about _the fries, Swan, jeez_ when she tried to punch his shoulder. “We’re going farther uptown,” he corrected. “And I wasn’t willing to risk the temperature of the fries while we walked another fifty blocks. What was your original question?”   
  
“How could you possibly know there was a different question? Maybe I’m just trying to make sure you’re not kidnapping me.”   
  
Killian shook his head. They’d almost eaten all the fries already. “You wear every single one of your thoughts on your face, love. It’s almost painfully obvious. Go ahead, ask your question.”   
  
“It might be questions,” she warned.

“I’ve got fifty blocks worth of answers.”  
  
“You take Henry and Roland to the museum. With dinosaurs.”   
  
“That’s not a question, Swan.” She shrugged, just waited and Killian laughed when she didn’t say anything else. “Roland is particularly interested in something called a titanosaur. We went for his birthday.”   
  
“And you took Henry to see boats?”   
  
He tilted his head, shoulders going tight almost immediately. “Ships,” he said and that wasn’t the response Emma expected. “They’re ships. If you want to get technical.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“He told you that?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “When I came to school that one time. I told you he’s got a very high opinion of you. And, apparently, your decision not to buy umbrellas from street vendors.”   
  
“They’re a ripoff, Swan. You really shouldn’t….”   
  
She squeezed his hand tightly, effectively cutting him off and there was hardly any space between them, the driver glancing in the rearview mirror every now and then. Emma tried to ignore her audience. “I really don’t care about the pros and cons of umbrella street vendors,” she muttered. “Is this...well, are you trying to prove something here?”   
  
“What would I have to prove?” Killian asked, but his voice sounded strained and she knew she’d hit on something important.

“You tell me.”

Killian shrugged, leaning his head back on the seat. “When I was a kid...there was...well, there wasn’t much, but I almost didn’t actually realize it. Liam. He...he made sure I didn’t and I never really thanked him for that. A decade of him working and probably never eating and he’d only been in the Navy for a couple of years before our mother died and he had to come home and take care of me.

The only reason that happened was because he was an officer. And that shouldn’t have happened to begin with. Enlisted men don’t rise up some metaphorical rank as easily as he did.”  
  
He took a deep breath, eyes closing lightly and Emma resisted the urge to brush her fingers across his jaw. She wanted to. “He worked so hard,” Killian whispered. “Harder than anyone should have, just to...to make sure I didn’t have to. He never went to school, _couldn’t_ go to school. You asked about that before. If I thought about following him?”

Emma nodded, twisted next to him until their knees brushed and it was awkward and uncomfortable and she just wanted him to keep talking. “You said he wouldn’t have let you,” she mumbled, words suddenly incredibly difficult.

“Punched me right in the face more like,” Killian laughed. “He was...God he was a hard ass. All that training and protocol and I hated him for awhile, but he’s the only reason I ever did anything.”

He smiled softly, but Emma jerked back at that, breathing heavily in disbelief. “What?” Killian asked, reaching out quickly when she tried to slide back towards her side of the seat.

“You really think that?” Emma asked sharply and Killian shrugged. “That is...that’s insane.”  
  
“That word, Swan.”   
  
“I’m serious! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You are...you’ve won awards! Your stories are all over the internet. You know how many Google results there were when I was trying to make sure you weren’t secretly a serial killer? Like six-hundred thousand! That’s a ridiculous number.”   
  
“You were trying to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer?”   
  
“That’s what you’re getting out of this?”   
  
“I mean, I’m just hoping you’re not still worried about that.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, well aware of the attempts at distractions and heavy-handed subject change, but she was nothing if not mind-numbingly stubborn. “You’ve done good things,” she said intently, tugging on the end of his jacket sleeve like that would prove something. “A lot of good things. You get to be proud of that. On your own.”   
  
He sighed, one side of his mouth tugging up when he glanced out the window. “You don’t know that, Swan. I...Liam died and I ran. I turned my back on everything in this entire city and started covering....they weren’t good stories. There was quite a lot of death involved.”   
  
“You weren’t killing those people,” Emma pointed out, Killian’s answering laugh some kind of victory in that cab with empty french fry containers in their hands.

Killian shook his head slowly – like he couldn’t quite believe the determination in Emma’s voice. She moved back towards him, hands finding the front of his jacket until he didn’t really have any choice but to look at him. “I don’t think you’re a serial killer,” she said softly.

He kissed her.

That probably wasn’t the normal response that sentence.

She absolutely did not care.

Emma moved again, trying to twist and turn until she was practically straddling his right leg in the back seat of the cab and the driver actually coughed when, apparently, they crossed some kind of line.

“He acts like people don’t make out in his cab all the time,” Killian mumbled, trailing his hand down Emma’s spine and through the bottom of her hair.

She’d lost all control of that conversation. And for the first time in her life she almost didn’t mind. “You sound like you’ve got a lot of experience making out in the back of cabs.”  
  
Killian shook his head, brushing his lips against hers again and for half a moment she let her mind drift back to _that_ word and that feeling and she could almost feel everything shift right there, again, as soon as she smiled at her.

She was totally fucked.

“We’re here,” the driver announced, slamming on the brakes a bit more than absolutely necessary and Killian’s arm tightened around Emma’s waist. She stepped on his foot in an attempt not to actually fall off his leg.

“Yeah, thanks, I noticed that,” Killian mumbled, swiping a card while Emma tried to pull herself away from him. It wasn’t particularly easy.

They managed to get out of the cab eventually, hands finding each other almost as soon as the car drove away and Emma tried not to read into that too much, but she’d been thinking a lot and Killian kept talking and he was just so goddamn good at kissing her.

It made it easy to believe.

Or something less ridiculous.

“Ice cream right down the block,” Emma said. “Looks like you can keep being the favorite in the battle for best quasi-uncle.”  
  
Killian grinned, glancing up at the building – all brick and glass doors and a bannister that actually managed to glisten even under a slightly cloudy, unseasonably cold sky. “Please, Swan, you act like it’s even a competition.”   
  
“Is that a doorman?” Emma whistled and she couldn’t think when Killian smiled at her like that, all hopeful confidence and slightly obvious determination and she nodded when he took a step towards what was absolutely a doorman. In uniform.

“This is so fancy,” she whispered, earning a slightly disapproving look from the doorman who apparently _needed ID_ to let them into the open house on the ninth floor. “There’s a gym. You could...I don’t know, whatever you do at a gym.”   
  
“Are you not well-acquainted with a gym, love?”   
  
“I’m not sure if I should take that as an insult or a compliment. And, come on, I play video games for a living.”   
  
That caught the attention of the door man. “You play?” he asked, and he didn’t have a name tag like Spencer did. “Professionally?”   
  
“I do,” Emma nodded, something that might have been butterflies in her stomach. Killian’s smile probably could have done several things decidedly impossible for smiles. “Uh...I’m, uh, I play Overwatch.”   
  
The unnamed doorman actually snapped his fingers and Emma waited for the metaphorical light bulb to appear over his head. “You play for Wail, don’t you? I knew you looked familiar! Swan, right?”  
  
“I’m going to kill Ruby,” Emma mumbled, Killian’s laugh in her ear and the doorman standing in front of her like he’d just met his game-playing idol. “Just Emma is fine. Do you play too?”   
  
“Not nearly as well as you do. That sweep in the first round was crazy. What an upset!”   
  
Emma wasn’t sure what was going on.

She’d never met a single person who had watched her play video games, let alone knew her by face and a poorly worded nickname. This was completely uncharted territory.

And Killian was still laughing next to her.

“Do you..” the doorman continued, struggling just a bit when he tried to find the actual pocket of his uniform. “Do you think I could get a picture?”

“What?” Emma balked, grimacing when she realized just how stunned she sounded.

“I mean, you know, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Emma shook her head dumbly, glancing back at Killian who looked like he was actually in pain while trying not to cackle in the lobby of an apartment building he might eventually live in. “Of course not,” she said quickly, taking a step towards the doorman and she wasn’t going to be able to tell anyone about this. She hoped she wasn’t actually blushing in the photo.

Killian took the photo, eyes _unfairly_ blue when he tried to get Emma and the doorman to stand _just a bit closer_ and he took no less than half a dozen pictures before handing the phone back.

“I’ll make sure to tag you too,” the doorman promised, handing them back their IDs and directing them towards the elevator lobby at the end of the hall. “That way you’ll see it too.”  
  
“Fantastic,” Emma lied, and Killian nearly fell over when they turned the corner, arm wrapped around his waist and his whole body shaking. She kicked at his ankle. “Not a single word. If you tell Ruby about any of this I will actually kill you.”   
  
“She’s going to see it anyway, love,” he said, still laughing when the elevator doors opened. “You’re famous.”   
  
Emma groaned, sinking into the corner of the elevator, but she didn’t argue anything else and she didn’t really want to as soon as they walked into the ready-to-rent apartment. She whistled again and Killian hummed softly next to her, thumb brushing against the back of her palm.

She’d been in plenty of apartments in her life – good ones and bad ones and ones that were mostly masquerading as closets, but this one, uptown and quiet and on another street that had way too many trees, was somewhere close to perfect.

There was almost too much light – something Emma was sure was on the listing in italicized print – and while she couldn't see the actual bedroom, she just assumed it was gorgeous and probably had, at least, four windows.

There wasn’t anyone else there, just a slightly disappointed looking woman who was probably the landlord. She glanced up when she heard footsteps, practically pouncing towards them with a stack of papers in her hands.

“Another fan, incoming,” Killian muttered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Ass,” Emma challenged, and he just laughed again.

“Hi, hi, hi,” the woman chanted, skidding to a stop just in front of them. “Are you two here to see the apartment?”  
  
Killian nodded, squeezing Emma’s hand just a bit tighter than normal. “Yeah. Killian Jones,” he said. “And this is my...this is Emma Swan. The place is still available?”

Emma’s heart did something ridiculous at the slight stammer in his voice, the way he cut himself off and _qualifiers_ were absurd and antiquated and just a bit too middle school, but she also wasn’t sure she’d ever actually used them and her heart sped up even more.

The woman in front of them was still talking.   
  
“Very,” she promised, like that was an appropriate descriptor for an apartment. “We’ve...well, not many people want to live this far uptown. I’m Lily, in charge of rentals and leases, all that obnoxious paperwork. I’m so glad to see you two.”   
  
Emma glanced at Killian to find him looking just a bit shellshocked at the reception. “Could we look around?” she asked, taking control like she was the one moving a million blocks uptown.

“Of course! Of course! It’s one bedroom, down the hall, two closets in that hall, plenty of storage space for a couple.”  
  
“Oh, we’re not…”   
  
Lily’s eyes widened in disbelief, falling down to their hands, still twisted up together and Emma’s stomach lurched. “It’s just me,” Killian said softly and, maybe, with a hint of disappointment. “The bedroom’s down the hall, you said?”   
  
Lily nodded, pointing over her shoulder and Killian didn’t wait for another word before he started walking, Emma almost jogging to keep up with him. There wasn’t any furniture in the room – just more windows and another closet and Emma couldn't come up with a single thing to say.

“You think utilities are included?” she asked.

Killian dropped her hand when he started laughing, pulling her flush against his chest and kissing the top of her hair again and she smiled against his jacket. “Probably not, right?”

“Nah, probably not.”  
  
“I grew up at the other end of this block,” he whispered, barely audible over the absolute silence of the apartment.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” Emma mumbled, leaning back to find blue eyes and that same, hopeful smile on his face and, well, she was absolutely in love with him. “You know I lived in eight different houses before I ended up with David? And that’s not including the group homes.”

Killian stared at her – pity flashing across his face and Emma resisted the urge to turn on her heels and do damage to the elevator button. She took a deep breath instead. “The group homes were the worst,” she muttered. “Because there were so many kids and not enough stuff or enough space. That’s why I was asking about the costs and stuff. Just force of habit, I suppose. And that’s actually how I wound up in Storybrooke. They closed the house and they wanted us to move again and just start over and I was sixteen and pissed off and so I just...ran. I figured if I ran fast enough they wouldn’t be able to catch me.”  
  
“Did they?

Emma shook her head. ”Ruth made sure they didn’t. She was...she wasn’t my mom, but she might as well be. She wouldn’t let them bring me back, even when the entire state of Maine tried to sue her. She’s even more stubborn than David is, which is actually saying a lot. And if she hadn’t fought so hard, M’s would have. Mary Margaret is very determined to make sure I’m happy. You know she bought me my homecoming dress my junior year?”  
  
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”   
  
She nodded, memories flooding her head and her system and probably that heart that was still beating erratically in between her ribs. Killian didn’t say anything when she took a step forward, resting her forehead on one of the windows and taking a deep breath.

Even the view outside was gorgeous.

“They left,” Emma muttered, breath fogging the pane of glass in front of her. “Went to college and said they’d be back, but I was...I was so terrified of being by myself and I just figured they wouldn’t. They’d go away and I’d just be on my own again. So I ran again.”  
  
The floor creaked when he finally moved behind her – the feel of his prosthetic on her back and Emma wished her heart could decide on a medically acceptable rhythm. “They came back,” Killian said.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “They did. David wouldn’t let me close the door until I agreed to come back to Maine with him.”  
  
“A very good older brother.”   
  
“Technically.”

“Definitely.”

She sighed again, tongue darting out over her lips and she might have leaned back against Killian. He was just far too...something that didn’t sound as lame as solid. “I guess what I’m saying,” Emma continued, the words scratching at her throat. “Is that I get what it’s like to want to live up to something or someone. I am terrified of letting them down.”

He must have smiled, because she could feel it on the curve of her neck, lips quirking up while she kept staring out the window. “You couldn’t do that, Swan,” he said, the certainty in his voice working its way down her spine and into her bloodstream and that was lame too, but she believed him.

She turned, that belief fueling the sentiment and she’d probably blame the apartment or how enthusiastic Lily the landlord had been or maybe even the blue in Killian’s eyes for the words that came out of her mouth.

“I know there are things that you’re not telling me. About Gold and stuff that happened in New Orleans and and how worried you actually are and that’s fine. Honestly. Whatever happened there or all the absolutely ridiculous reasons you think you’d disappoint Liam, you’re not that anymore. You are...I mean, we’re kind of dating, right?”

Killian nodded slowly, awe nearly radiating off him. “I’d like that,” he said, and Emma finally moved her hand, thumb brushing across the stubble on his chin. “But that’s quite a bit of faith you’re putting in me, Swan.”

“I mean I watched all those CW dramas. Some of those storylines are bound to stick.”  
  
He scoffed, but he didn’t blink when he looked at her. “This is going to work, love. I don’t intend to let you down.”

“I know, that’s why I’m going to choose to see the best in you. So, maybe….maybe we can both stop running?”

“I’d like that,” he repeated.

Lily actually knocked on the still open bedroom door, a nervous look on her face and a pound of paperwork still held in her hands. “Any thoughts on the apartment?” she asked.

Killian glanced at Emma, eyebrows lifted and it probably would have been weird to just shout _I love you_ with Lily standing a few feet away. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, I’m definitely going to take it.”   
  
Lily looked like she was close to actually jumping for joy, going on a mile a minute about leases and utilities and gym access, but Killian couldn’t possibly have been listening when he was busy staring at Emma like he felt the same way she did.

“Welcome home, Killian,” Emma murmured, and he kissed her again. Even with Lily standing a few feet away.  

Maybe they could use qualifiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flirty interludes! Gossip Girl references! Emotional backstory! They're uh....they're pretty into each other. As always, thank you guys so much for every click, comment and kudos. I know I am always spamming the internet with words and these particular words aren't a lot like my other words, so I really, really appreciate it! 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	19. Chapter 19

Killian took a step forward, another bottle of wine in the crook of his elbow and an actual bag of cookies in his hand. He took a deep breath, staring at the slab of wood that was also a door in front of him and Henry promptly ran into his back.

“What the hell, Hook?” Will snapped, hitching Roland up and groaning when he earned an elbow in the side of the head for his efforts. Regina glared him. “God, c’mon, Gina, he’s heard these words before. It’s fine. Hook are you challenging the door to a duel?”  
  
“No,” Killian answered simply, but it wasn’t really an answer and every single person in the hallway knew it.

There were a lot of people in the hallway.   
  
Probably more than there should have been.

The small army of Killian’s friends, _family_ , hadn’t been part of the invitation. At least not initially.

Emma had asked a few days before – tucked into the corner of a booth in Granny’s with a plate of onion rings in front of her and her headset still hanging around her neck. “Do you want to come over for dessert?” she’d mumbled, words barely intelligible, particularly when she’d spoken them mostly into her knees.

“What?” Killian asked. He was holding an onion ring.

She bit her lip, scrunching her nose and squeezing one eye shut and it was, hands down, the single most adorable and possibly attractive thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. He resisted the very real urge to ask her to come home with him. She had, after all, asked her question first.

“Thanksgiving,” Emma said, twisting further into the corner to smile hopefully in his direction. “On Thursday?”  
  
“I’m aware of when Thanksgiving is, love.”   
  
“Then why are you being difficult about this?”   
  
“Because you’re honestly just telling me when major national holidays are. You’re going to have to be more specific, Swan.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing the onion ring out of his hand and practically snapping her jaws on it and, well, maybe that was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. He should keep a list. Absolutely not. That was definitely weird.

“I’m sure you’ve got stuff to do in the afternoon and, like, you know, actual dinner and everything like that, but well, they’re,” she nodded in the direction of her team, still sitting at the bar and nursing respective drinks after practice and another live video session that ended with another hundred followers, “going to all come to M’s and David’s for dessert and everyone has to bring something and it might be some kind of bonding session, but you could come. If you want.”  
  
If he wanted.

Of course he wanted.

He was some kind of ridiculously head over heels in love with her and he’d spent the last week and a half since moving his few possessions out of Will’s apartment wondering how he could invite her to come uptown without it sounding weird or pushing and maybe they’d agreed on _dating_ , but they hadn’t really talked about anything else.

There wasn’t time.

There were practices and live streams and that feature story on Ruby he really needed to finish because Granny’s glares were getting a little more pointed every time he walked into the restaurant and Killian was fairly certain his food supply was going to be cut off if he didn’t come through with, at least, seven-hundred thousand hits.

Not to mention Gold and Second Star and he hadn’t talked to David since that day in the precinct and Killian wasn’t actually a cop. And Regina was still mad at him about the hits thing. Ariel had, at least, gotten new business cards.

She had started handing them out to people on the train.

“I won’t do anything ridiculously dramatic this time, if that helps sway your decision,” Emma muttered, smile turned just a hint more nervous when she grabbed another onion ring and promptly tore it to pieces.

“Swan, are you making jokes?”  
  
She nodded. “Bad ones.”   
  
“Decidedly,” Killian agreed, but he couldn’t stop looking at her either and maybe if he just got her to come back uptown he could tell her how much he’d wanted her uptown and then tell her he loved her. A lot. It was almost romantic.

The well-known romantic holiday of Thanksgiving.

“I have to do dinner with Locksley and Gina on pain of death,” he said. “Like Gina will honestly push me in front of a car or onto train tracks if I don’t show.”  
  
“Does Regina cook?”

Killian quirked an eyebrow and Emma’s eyes widened when she realized just how skeptical her question sounded. “Absolutely not,” he laughed. “But the very fancy restaurant a couple blocks away from their very fancy apartment does.”  
  
“Ah, well, you could...they could come too. Later. I mean. If you wanted. There’ll be a ridiculous amount of baked goods because of who Mary Margaret is as a person and Ruby’s taken it as a personal challenge to produce something edible this year.”   
  
“Should I be concerned about that?” Killian asked, ignoring the flutter in his stomach and possibly his heart when she invited everyone in his family to her friend’s holiday traditions. Again.

“Nah,” Emma objected. “And she’s definitely going to Granny to bake something and then try and pass it off as her own.”  
  
“Well, of course.”   
  
That was three days before and now Killian was frozen solid in front of Mary Margaret’s apartment door, Will mumbling jokes under his breath and Robin trying to get him to shut up and Regina glaring at all of them. And Ariel had brought business cards with her.

He was going to throw cookies at all of them.

That would mean he didn’t have the required dessert to get through the door.

“God damnit,” Killian mumbled, and Will snickered before the sound turned into a quiet groan when someone elbowed him in the side. It might have actually been Henry.

“Do we need to circle up the team or something?” Ariel asked, holding a plate of cupcakes. “You know pep talk Killian?”  
  
Robin chuckled. “Did you just use pep talk as a verb?”   
  
“Impressive, right? Put that on the next round of business cards.”   
  
“I’m not buying you more business cards,” Regina mumbled. She’d brought pie. Real pie. With apples. That she actually bought from the farmers market in Union Square. Or, at least, made Aurora buy in Union Square.

Aurora might have made the pie.

“Hook,” Roland shouted, trying to climb over Will’s shoulders to work towards Killian and nearly kicking everyone in the hallway. “Can I have a cookie now?”  
  
Killian shook his head, ears straining to hear something on the other side of the door. He couldn't hear footsteps or anything except what sounded a bit like the Zelda theme song and Ruby yelling a string of curses that Regina probably wouldn’t appreciate.

“Ok, but for real, do we need to pep talk?” Ariel asked again. “Like as a verb or some other form of grammar? Because we can’t just stand in this hallway forever. That’d be weird.”  
  
Will made a contradictory noise. “Eh, we’ve got a good amount of sustenance. We could survive out here for...what do you think, Locksley? Two days? At least, right?”   
  
“Like one tops,” Robin argued. “You didn’t bring a dessert so you don’t get to eat.”   
  
“That’s not fair at all.”   
  
“Those are the rules.”   
  
“You didn't bring a dessert!”   
  
“Gina got her assistant to bake things. I’m part of that package.” He held up his left hand and the band around his finger seemed to reflect the light in the hallway, distracting Killian from the door and the video game sound effects and Henry tugged on his sleeve.

“Hook,” he said, evenly and, maybe, just a bit more knowing than he should be. “The ice cream’s going to melt.”  
  
Ariel threw her whole head back when she laughed and even Regina’s lips twitched, tugging Henry to her side and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, ignoring the way he squirmed against her. Robin and Will stopped arguing about desserts.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Killian admitted. “Ok, so, we knock on the door. We act like normal humans and then...everything is fine.”  
  
Regina glanced _meaningfully_ at Robin, a million words and emotions in that not-so-simple gaze and Will didn’t even argue when Roland’s foot collided with his thigh as he, finally, dropped back onto the ground. “You know, Hook,” Will said slowly, resting his arm on Henry’s shoulder. “I think you’re almost embarrassed by us.”   
  
Killian rolled his eyes, argument on the tip of his tongue, but Ariel answered him instead. “It’s because he hasn’t told Emma,” she said softly.

The energy seemed to fly out of the hallway.

“What?” Robin asked. Regina kicked Killian’s ankle. He wished they’d stop doing that.

“Nothing, nothing,” Killian muttered, turning back towards the door with the intent of actually knocking on it, but Robin swatted his hand away.

“She doesn’t actually know about the hit thing?”  
  
“Can we come up with a different phrase than hit thing? That’s almost worse than murder board.”   
  
“Which, you know, you should probably take out of my apartment,” Will added, but Robin barely paid him any attention, staring at Killian with something that felt a bit _older brother_ and a lot _judgmental_.

“Have you really not told her what you did?” Robin pressed. Killian shook his head. “Jeez, c’mon Hook. You’re an idiot, but that’s just really dumb.”  
  
“Who’s an idiot?” Roland asked, pulling on the front of Killian’s shirt in an obvious attempt to tug the bag of cookies out of his hand.

“No one mate,” Killian promised. He moved the wine, grunting slightly when he used his left arm to pull Roland up and sling him over his shoulder in some kind of fairly obvious attempt to use Robin’s own child as a deflection for whatever the conversation had evolved into.

It didn’t work. “You are,” Robin said intently. “You are an idiot. Why wouldn't you? You passed the test, didn’t you? The stories all hit and we’re all in the clear now.”  
  
“We’re?” Killian asked. “I wasn’t aware you were writing the stories, Locksley.”   
  
Robin glared at him, expression turned exasperated, but Ariel and Regina both made a noise – quiet sounds of disagreement and disappointment and Killian was glad he had Roland to hold onto.

“What?” Killian asked, half shouting the word in the middle of the hallway and he could hear footsteps behind the door. “What was that noise for?”  
  
“Nothing,” Ariel and Regina said at the same time, glancing quickly at each other.

“Nuh uh, try again.”  
  
Ariel scuffed her foot on the ground, but Regina was Regina and she took a step towards Killian, lips set in a firm line and eyes just a bit more intent than usual – even while holding an apple pie.

“You left before she could issue you another ultimatum,” Regina explained. “She, well, the board, I suppose, wants three hundred now. Thinks you should be building on your success every story and drawing the hits to fuel the ads and the circle of journalism revenue or whatever. It’s obviously a ploy because of who’s in charge now, but you volunteered for two hundred and now they think they can get you if you keep writing and they keep up’ing the ante as it were.”  
  
“As it were,” Killian repeated and Regina shrugged slightly.

He took a deep breath, huffing it out loudly and he didn’t actually have another hand to grip Roland’s shirt, but the kid didn’t seem to mind, just wrapped his own arms around Killian’s neck and didn’t use any of his limbs to inflict bodily harm.

“He knows,” Regina continued, voicing the worry that had been sitting in the back of Killian’s head for weeks. “He knows it’s you and he absolutely hates you and...everything that happened and I can’t do anything to fix it. He’s….this Gold guy is an asshole.”  
  
“Ha,” Will crowed, pointing at Regina with wide eyes and a wide-open mouth. “You just broke your own rule, Gina!”   
  
“God, Scarlet, now is not the time,” Robin mumbled, and Killian might have squeezed Roland just a bit tighter. He was going to drop the cookies.

Or the wine.

That felt like a trend for that hallway.

“So much for editorial control, huh?” Regina asked, smile just a bit disappointed and Killian felt his feet moving before he really considered it, turning away from the door and twisting so he could kiss her cheek quickly. Roland didn’t appreciate that.

“It’s a good story, Gina,” Killian said. She closed her eyes lightly, resting her palm on Roland’s back and Will didn’t make a single sarcastic comment.

“So, all for one or something?” Ariel asked, and even Regina laughed. “That’s a good pep talk, right? We promo the shit out of the stories, sorry guys, and then we up the social media presence with the team and Killian gets the hits and doesn’t lose his job and he and Emma live happily ever after.”  
  
“That was a good pep talk, A,” Henry said, grumbling under his breath when Will hooked his arm around his waist and twisted him around in the middle of the hallway.

“Thanks, kid.”  
  
“Can we eat the ice cream now?”

Killian laughed, Roland’s whole body shaking against his with the force of it, but he still hadn’t sustained any seven-year-old induced bruises yet and he could get to three-hundred thousand hits. Sure. Definitely.   
  
Maybe.

Hopefully.

God, he wanted to keep writing this story.

He wanted to ignore Robert Gold completely.

He wanted Emma Swan to come home with him later that night.

He maybe also wanted to eat some ice cream.

But the thing with Emma mostly.

“We can definitely eat the ice cream now,” Killian said, turning back towards the door and it was a balancing act, trying to make sure Roland didn’t fall on the floor when he raised his free hand to try and knock.

He didn’t have to.

The door swung open and Emma smiled at him, eyes finding his immediately and Killian tried not to sprint towards her, far too aware of the seven-year-old still draped over his shoulder and Will laughing behind him and they’d never actually found out if Regina baked her own pie.

He didn’t move.

“Hey,” Emma said brightly, hooking a socked foot around the back of the door so it didn’t hit against the wall. “Were you...were you guys ever going to come in?”  
  
“We were pep talking,” Ariel explained like that wasn't the single most embarrassing thing anyone had ever said. Killian sighed, closing his eyes lightly, but he could still see Emma’s smile and that felt like a sign to walk into the apartment.

“Pep talking? Is the dessert that intimidating?”  
  
“It is if you’re Hook and he’s already swooning,” Will muttered, pushing on Henry’s shoulder as he took a step into the apartment. His eyes flitted towards Anna and she wasn’t frozen, smile wide and obvious as soon as she leapt off the couch.

“Are you guys playing games again?” Roland asked. He twisted back around and Killian finally felt an elbow in his collarbone.

“God, mate, relax,” he mumbled, trying to work Roland back onto the ground without any more bruises or lacerations. “Here, take these,” he added, pushing the bag of cookies into the kid’s hands and ignoring Regina’s not-so-quiet reprimand.

“You are the worst kind of adult supervision,” she hissed, huffing when she hitched Roland back up her side and followed Will into the apartment. Robin flashed Killian _a look_ and he resisted the urge to groan, but that was difficult when Ariel actually gave him a thumbs up as she walked by, already talking about business cards and asking who wanted one.

“So you were pep talking with your family in the hallway?” Emma asked, taking a step towards him and resting both hands on the front of his jacket.

Killian’s eyes widened at _family_ and maybe that was more right than either one of them realized and it was, after all, a national holiday. “Something like that,” he said, pulling his hand up to trail his fingers through the end of her hair. “What are you guys playing?”   
  
“Zelda. David claims he’s better at that than MarioKart, but Rubes has been playing Zelda since before she was born and it’s almost more embarrassing than the MarioKart debacle usually is. You’re a welcome distraction from the destruction of my brother’s honor.”   
  
He quirked an eyebrow, moving his hands down to her waist and tugging her back away from the door and it didn’t actually close behind her, but he couldn’t be bothered with the specifics of it when he was focused on kissing her.

She rocked back slightly when he all but _crashed_ against her, but Killian moved his arm and Emma seemed to almost fall into him and he wasn’t ever going to argue that. Her hands worked under the edge of his jacket, brushing over his shirt and, maybe, trying to work under that as well and it left him more than just a bit dizzy in the middle of the hallway.

She wasn’t wearing shoes and Killian knew the exact moment she pressed up on her toes to try and reach him, mouth just a bit more intent and balance not quite as certain and he didn’t remember moving his right hand until it was tangled in her hair.

They couldn’t seem to stop.

One of them would pull away, breathing just a bit quicker than usual and the other would press back and the whole thing would start all over again until Killian was fairly certain they were never going to leave that hallway.

“That is cheating,” Emma mumbled, voice soft and breathless and Killian smiled against her lips. He pulled back slightly, one of her arms still wrapped around his waist and the other clutching the front of his jacket.

“That’s an awful large accusation to just throw around, love. How do you figure?”

“Is that what you were pep talking about?”  
  
“That would be awfully strange don’t you think?” Killian asked, and Emma squeezed her eyes closed. “And that’s not an answer either.”   
  
“You do that and I can’t even think straight and now I’ve got to go play Zelda and act like this isn’t…”   
  
“Isn’t what?”   
  
Emma’s teeth tugged on her lip, nerves rolling off her in almost visible waves. “Well,” she stammered, waving a hand out in front of the minimal amount of space between them. “You know...this. The kissing. And the dating.”   
  
“This isn’t dating?”   
  
“Well, yeah, I mean, we’ve been over that right?”   
  
Her voice picked up with every word, the nerves almost evolving into some kind of actual flashing, neon light in front of Killian and he tilted his head slightly. “We have,” Killian agreed. “And I know, well, we’re absolutely breaking every rule, but it’s not going to change the stories or how I write or how you play, so it’s almost ethically understandable.”   
  
“Almost,” Emma repeated, laughing softly.

“I’m sure plenty of people have done worse, Swan. Gina was going to marry Daniel. She’s got no ethical leg to stand on.”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until the words were out of his mouth and then the words seemed to punch him in the face and Killian was frozen again. “Ah, well, shit,” he muttered. “That’s not...that’s not even remotely what I meant. And I know they’re all here and being obnoxious and I think A’s trying to hand out business cards so your brother can give them to other officers like that’s something anyone needs.”  
  
“Shut up,” Emma interrupted, and Killian could actually feel his eyes getting wider.

“What?”  
  
“Just...for a second stop talking. That’s not even remotely where I was going with any of this. I was, well, I haven’t been totally honest with you and I just kind of wanted to get something out of the way before we all gorged ourselves on dessert.”   
  
“A lovely picture.”   
  
Emma scowled, but she hadn’t let go of his jacket and if she didn’t keep talking he was liable to start kissing her again. “I dated Neal,” she announced, nodding once like she was just trying to make herself believe the words. “A long time ago and right after David and M’s left and that’s why they hate him and Rubes hates him and it was...not good. It was really, really bad and I kind of hate him too and I don’t...do this, the dating thing, very often. At all. Ever. Because it usually ends badly, but…”   
  
She trailed off, eyes darting around the hallway like she was looking for the nearest escape route and Killian hoped his heart didn’t actually beat out of his body. That would have ruined the moment. “But what, love?” he asked softly, and Emma’s head snapped back towards him.

“I like you,” she said and it was some kind of miracle his knees didn’t buckle. “So, I guess I just wanted you to know.”  
  
“I like you too. Quite a bit.”   
  
“Enough to test those ethical lines.”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
He hadn’t _really_ meant for it to sound like a promise or the most important word he’d ever uttered, but he wasn’t sure he was getting enough blood to his brain, so Killian couldn’t be held accountable for anything he said.

Or didn’t say.

Because he was so absolutely, incredibly in love with her that he was almost surprised he hadn’t just typed that eight-hundred times and put it on the internet as well.

And Emma’s smile made him fairly certain he’d break _every_ rule if he got her to look at him like that on some kind of consistent basis.

“You want to learn how to play Zelda?” she asked. “And maybe eat some of those cookies you brought?”  
  
“Roland ate all of them by now, I am positive.”

“Ah, well, luckily for you Mary Margaret planned for a small army of desert-eating people and there are no less than a dozen different types of cookies in there.”  
  
“A dozen?”   
  
Emma nodded, smile still tugging on the ends of her mouth. She hadn’t let go of his jacket. “We were very productive over the last two days. Although I can’t imagine how we didn’t actually burn the entire building down.”   
  
“A holiday miracle. Did you bake Swan?”   
  
“They would kick me out if I didn’t.”   
  
“That’s not even remotely true and you know it.”   
  
She rolled her eyes, pushing back up on her toes to press a quick kiss on his lips and she laughed softly when he absolutely chased after her. “C’mon, counselor,” she said, lacing her fingers through his and tugging back into the apartment and the noise and Henry was already playing Zelda, Roland shouting excitedly next to him.

It only took a few minutes to realize that Henry was, easily, the best Zelda player in the entire apartment – winning whatever quest they were trying to accomplish and Ruby kept staring at him with a look that was nothing short of _wonder_ on her face.

“Why are you unnaturally good at this?” Ruby asked, and it sounded like a compliment.

Henry flashed her a smile – and Regina might have actually _beamed_ at that – barely taking his eyes away from the TV and his fingers didn’t stop moving once. “When I was a kid, Robin would bring me and Rol into the office and he and mom didn’t want us to stay with someone. I used to play DS all the time. And I got pretty good. This is my favorite one though. Heroes and princesses and all of that.”

Ruby gaped at him and Emma twisted slightly, pulling herself even closer to Killian’s side where they were leaning against the counter of Mary Margaret’s kitchen.

“When you were a kid,” Ruby repeated slowly. “And how old are you now, exactly?”  
  
“Eleven,” Henry answered before promptly saving the princess or doing something in the game that worked a slightly stunned sound out of David.

“Yeah, eleven going on forty-seven and decidedly more grown-up than all of us combined,” Will muttered. “The kid’s going to take over as Hook’s guardian soon, just to make sure he’s got food in his new apartment.”  
  
Henry scoffed, making a face when David reached over to ruffle his hair and the two of them were, suddenly, involved in a very detailed game conversation. Killian tightened his arm around Emma, smiling despite the small audience they’d garnered when she rested her head against his shoulder.

“I have food,” he grumbled, but he could have stayed silent for all the good it did him and Mary Margaret was already rummaging in the fridge, talking about leftovers and reheated mashed potatoes.

“Do you have a microwave, Killian?” Mary Margaret asked, head completely obscured from view by what might have been a whole other turkey.

“M’s, you don’t have to…” Emma started, but Mary Margaret just waved a dismissive hand over her shoulder and apparently neither one of them was allowed to talk to their friends. “Ah, well, it’s too late now, I guess,” she laughed softly. “I told you she was going to try and feed you no matter what.”  
  
“It really is absurdly nice, Swan,” Killian promised. She made a noise against his shoulder and they had, apparently, just dived right into the deep end of _dating_ and friends and a very large, video-game playing unit.

“Yeah, that’s Mary Margaret’s middle name, isn’t it?”  
  
“Hmmm?” Mary Margaret mumbled at the sound of her own name, standing back up and she definitely had a plate of turkey in one hand and what might have actually been several pounds of sweet potatoes in the other.

“Jeez, M’s,” Emma sighed, grabbing the sweet potatoes and staring at her friend like she couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Killian couldn’t either.

She was going to force-feed him sweet potatoes.

And he wasn’t going to argue it. He wasn’t even sure he liked sweet potatoes. But he kind of liked...this? He’d lost control of the metaphor completely.

Ruby’s feature better get a million hits.

“Do you have a refrigerator?” Mary Margaret continued, back in her _own_ refrigerator and working her way through leftovers. Emma rolled her eyes, the sweet potatoes still held in one hand and an understanding smile pulling on the corners of her mouth. “And do we have plastic wrap? Or aluminum foil? Oh! Tupperware. We’ve got Tupperware, right? David!”   
  
“What?” David shouted from the couch and he’d moved next to Henry, likely so he could get tips on how to save Zelda. Or whoever needed saving.

“Tupperware!”  
  
“What is happening right now?” Killian asked, glancing at Emma who now looked more amused than embarrassed.

“They’re adopting you,” she explained. She jumped onto the edge of the counter, grabbing the coffee pot he hadn’t even realized was brewing and holding it up in unspoken question. Killian nodded. And maybe made sure to slide a bit closer to the side of her legs. “You took leftovers that one time and now it’s Thanksgiving and you brought all those cookies. So fair’s only fair.”  
  
“David,” Mary Margaret called again, and he sighed dramatically before marching into the kitchen with his controller still in his hand.

“Get off my counter, kid,” David mumbled, nodding towards Emma. She crossed her arms tightly, shaking her head and he sighed again. “You are more impertinent than the actual children that are sitting in this apartment.”  
  
“That’s because you can’t compete with them when it comes to video games,” Emma pointed out. Mary Margaret laughed – from the refrigerator. “We went over this.”   
  
Killian didn’t entirely expect that, head snapping back over his shoulder and eyes widening slightly and Emma bit her lip tightly. “Were you also pep-talking, Swan?”   
  
“Maybe a little.”   
  
“Maybe?”   
  
“We were given rules,” David said, elbowing Emma’s thigh to try and work his way towards the, now, half-filled coffee pot. “Jeez, Em, how much of this are you drinking?”   
  
“Get with it, Detective. And stop ignoring your wife. You’re supposed to be on some kind of Tupperware quest.”   
  
“Or aluminum foil,” Mary Margaret amended, finally standing up straight with another bowl of side dish. Green beans. Possibly in casserole form.

Emma hummed in agreement, eyes light with amusement and everything all felt….like Killian loved her a ridiculous amount. “Or aluminum foil,” she agreed. “M’s he doesn’t need casserole too. How’s he going to get that all uptown?”  
  
Mary Margaret blinked – bordering just a bit close to a bit owl-like with Thanksgiving food in both her hands and her neck actually made noise when she turned towards David. He shrugged. “Am I missing something?” Killian asked.

“No,” all three of them answered at the same time.

“See, that’s like journalism code for lying on the record.”  
  
“No one is on the record,” Emma argued, fingers tracing across the bottom of his hair and her brother was standing there. Mary Margaret was trying to get him to bring a small feast back to his apartment which did, in fact, have a refrigerator, but was still waiting on a microwave to actually get delivered.

“Why were you guys playing Zelda and not MarioKart?” Killian asked, hoping to change the subject and make sure Emma didn’t move her hand.

“That’s why,” Mary Margaret said.

“I don’t get it.”  
  
“David was whining,” Emma muttered, resting her arm on his shoulder and he tried not to lean back and wrap his arm around her waist or tell her that she could just come home with him later. If she wanted to. He hoped she wanted to.

He wanted her to.

David was glaring at them. “I was not whining,” he hissed, but that felt a bit like whining too. Emma hummed, a disbelieving sound, and Mary Margaret didn’t even try to disguise her laugh. Killian wasn’t sure what to do. “Ok, so maybe I was whining a little bit,” David admitted. “But only because I’m really getting tired of losing and if Killian’s whole family was going to show then…”  
  
He cut himself off when his eyes fell towards Killian. “Right? That’s the right word, right, counselor?”   
  
“Why do you and Emma keep using that word instead of journalist?” Killian asked. And, just like that, the tension in the kitchen, and between his shoulder blades, seemed to evaporate quickly and easily and David threw his whole head back and laughed.

Loudly.

“Force of habit,” he chuckled. “And it sounds way more official than journalist. How come you don’t have a cool nickname?”  
  
“His family does call him Hook,” Mary Margaret suggested, but Killian brushed her off quickly.

“That’s not a cool nickname,” he promised. “That is a joke that has overstayed his welcome. Honestly, just Killian is fine.”  
  
Emma made a noise, but her fingers didn’t still on the back of his neck and he nearly fell into the floor when she pressed a kiss against his temple. In front of her brother. Like he really was...just Killian. And that was fine.

No matter how many hits they got.

“David’s still trying to change the subject,” Emma muttered. “Because he’s embarrassed about his lackluster MarioKart skills, but what he’s failed to realize is that his generic video game skills are also pretty lackluster and we only landed on Zelda because Ruby is also questionably good at that game.”

“Not as good as Henry,” Mary Margaret added. “And the only reason we agreed on Zelda this time was because it got Ruby to stop talking about...what was the name of the game she was complaining about?”  
  
Emma groaned loudly, slumping over Killian’s shoulder and he did move his arm around her waist at that – if only to make sure she didn’t fall off the counter. Of course. Naturally.

“Oh my God, M’s, why?” she moaned, and David was laughing again, the quest for aluminum foil forgotten.

Ruby must have leapt over the couch and, possibly, teleported into the kitchen, eyes blazing and chest heaving and Emma burrowed even further into Killian’s neck. “Are you guys talking about Destiny again? Can we complain about Destiny again?”  
  
“No,” Emma muttered. She didn’t lift her head up.

“Oh, no, no, I’d love to complain about Destiny again,” Anna shouted, using Will as leverage to try and pull her phone out of her pocket. He looked as confused as Killian felt and Henry, finally, looked away from the television.

“Is it because it’s coming to console first?” he asked knowingly, and Ruby threw up her hands triumphantly, shouting _yes_ like she was trying to make sure the apartment building up the block heard her too.

They probably should have had that conversation in the living room where there was, at least, _some_ room and Killian dimly wondered where Emma’s air mattress went, but, instead, they’d all piled into the kitchen and Killian’s hand moved to Emma’s thigh.

“That’s exactly why,” Elsa answered when Ruby was too busy pacing a small hole into the kitchen to be bothered participating in the conversation she’d demanded.

“But you guys don’t play that game,” Killian pointed out. Elsa shrugged.

And Anna kept recording everything, making sure to linger on everyone’s face and ask about _their_ opinion on whatever this Destiny thing was and how insulting it was to PC players and Henry went on a two-minute soliloquy about the merits of playing on computer for first-person shooter.

It went on for twenty minutes and the fans started asking questions and they started playing Zelda on the live stream and Ariel actually managed to get it onto the home page with her phone.

“Yer a wizard, Harry,” Killian muttered, nudging her shoulder with his and earning a smile in return. “How we doing on hits?”  
  
“Right now, Killian?” Ariel asked. “You honestly want to do this right now? When your girlfriend’s wrecking on video games?”   
  
His stomach did some kind of strange, swooping _thing_ when she used that word and Ariel’s eyes widened to medically unsafe proportions. “What? For real?”   
  
“Are you asking me real questions?”   
  
“I am interrogating you, get with it.”   
  
Killian laughed, but it didn’t feel quite as honest as it had earlier that night and Emma glanced at him from Henry’s other side, her feet draped over David’s. “You ok?” she asked, shouting when Henry did something good in the game. “Ah, that was super good, kid!”   
  
Henry beamed and Roland was trying to play on someone’s handheld device or DS or whatever the technical term Killian should probably be aware of, helped along by an incredibly patient Elsa and Belle who were more than willing to teach at the same time they were, very clearly, losing.

“Better,” Killian promised. “Are you winning?”  
  
“It’s a single-person game,” she said, waving the controller she wasn’t actually using. His stomach twisted again and possibly flopped and Ariel nudged him, not-so-subtly, in the ribs. “Do some research, counselor.”   
  
Robin still had that _older brother_ look on his face, Regina perched on his legs in another chair and Will looked like he was actually trying to swallow his laughter. “Tell her,” Ariel hissed, just as bad at whispering as she was at not impaling his liver with her elbow.

Killian glared at her, huffing out the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and he’d settle for just having Emma come uptown with him and maybe eating Thanksgiving leftovers while they waited for his microwave to get delivered the next day, but he didn’t have enough time to consider any of that before Elsa shouted _guys_ and the whole living room froze.

“What?” Emma asked softly when no one else appeared willing to even open their mouths. “Is everything…”  
  
Elsa shook her head deftly, phone held lightly in her hand and staring at it like she couldn't quite believe what she’d just read. “Anna, turn your phone off,” she said.

“What?” Anna blinked.

“Now, Anna!”  
  
Anna stammered under her breath, mumbling something about the fans and unanswered questions, but there was no arguing the tone in Elsa’s voice – standing just a bit taller than normal on the side of the living room.

“Els,” Ruby said slowly, taking a cautious step forward. “What’s going on? The stream was going really well wasn’t it, Ariel?”  
  
Ariel nodded, but her hand found the side of Killian’s jacket and she gripped it just a bit tighter than normal.

“What’s wrong with going live, Elsa?” Emma asked. Elsa nearly dropped her phone.

“We had to stop,” she said, twisting the ends of her hair in frustration. “God, I...what a bunch of assholes, jeez, sorry Roland and Henry. Sorry, Regina.”  
  
Regina actually waved her hand in understanding and Will opened his mouth to comment about that, but Killian glared at him, stomach churning, and Ariel was going to rip his jacket. “Sponsorship stuff?” he ventured, and Elsa gasped loudly.

“How did you know that?”  
  
“Good guess.”   
  
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Emma said, standing up and pacing in the few feet of available floor space in front of her. “Why would the sponsor tell us to shut down a live feed of Thanksgiving? Did they object to Ruby’s Destiny opinions?”   
  
“Those are just facts,” Ruby argued. She stopped talking when she saw the look on Emma’s face. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”   
  
Elsa shook her head. “It was not Ruby’s opinions about Destiny or the pros and cons of PC play. It was...apparently our contract.”   
  
“Oh, I knew it,” Regina breathed.

Emma kept pacing, breathing heavily and chewing on her lip. David glanced at Killian – like he’d brought his murder board with him to Thanksgiving and could just start piecing together _another_ bit of this seemingly endless puzzle.

“It’s a contract thing,” Elsa explained. “The stuff we signed with the league even before we got to Philadelphia and right after qualifying. They’re claiming we broke it.”  
  
“What?” Emma shouted. Or maybe Ruby. Or possibly Anna. Elsa shrugged.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Belle said, face pressed so close to her phone she could have been scrolling with her nose. “Where are they claiming this?”  
  
Emma stopped pacing long enough to gape at her teammate and Killian was incredibly concerned about the state of his stomach and his jacket sleeve. Ariel was muttering code next to him, trying to get the feed off the homepage so there wasn’t just a blank square on the website.

“What are you looking at?” Emma demanded, but it only took her a few moments to answer her own question. “Oh, God, Belle, are you reading our contract? Do you have an actual PDF of our contract on your phone?”  
  
“Coming in handy, isn’t it?” Belle asked. Emma almost looked like she was trying to smile, sinking down on the couch – half on the actual cushion and half on Killian’s thigh. “I can’t find anything in here that says we can’t start our own streams. Or live feeds or whatever. Facebook is public, right?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Yes? Right? I have no idea. Ariel do you know that?”

“Why would I know that?” Ariel asked.

“You know how the internet works. Killian says you know how the internet works.”  
  
Ariel perked up at that, flashing a totally out of place smile in Killian’s direction and, finally, letting go of his jacket. “Ah, that’s nice. But your guess is as good as mine. I think Facebook owns Facebook. Right, Gina?”   
  
“Don’t bring me into this,” Regina muttered. “I asked Killian if this was breaking the rules.”

Killian tried to find something to stare at, settling for his sneakers and Emma groaned when she didn’t get the answer she was looking for. “What did they actually say Els?” she asked. “Was it really Wesselton?”

“He was the follow-up,” Elsa said. “That’s the technical term, right Killian?”

“Absolutely,” he mumbled, pulling his head up long enough to press it against Emma’s back.

“I didn’t see the first message at first because, you know, it’s Thanksgiving, but I guess he got contacted before us, which, that can’t be legal either.” Emma clicked her tongue impatiently and Elsa looked apologetic, nodding quickly as she tried to get her story back on track. “Anyway,” she continued. “Zelena’s office saw our streams and the League has some kind of exclusive partnership with Second Star and that means they’re the only ones who are allowed to stream?”  
  
“Was that supposed to be a question?”   
  
“Probably not. But, from the email, and I think we all got it, by the way, Second Star’s legal team notified the League that we were doing our own stream and, that, somehow, infringes on their exclusivity even if we’re not being promoted by the League directly.”   
  
“Hold on a second,” David interrupted. “Second Star’s legal team? God, he’s really pulling out all the stops isn’t he?”   
  
Elsa nodded, disappointment and something that felt a bit like dread almost visibly settling on her shoulders, and Killian kissed Emma’s back without even thinking about it. He thought she smiled. He hoped she smiled.

“The plot thickens,” Will mumbled, barely getting the words out before both Regina and Robin told him to shut up. He grabbed Roland, holding him on his legs like that was some kind of shield. “Ok, but honestly,” he added. “Can Hans do that?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Elsa admitted. “Belle is there anything in that contract about exclusivity?”   
  
Belle shook her head. “No. And there’s not anything in here about saying we can’t promote ourselves anyway we see fit. Ah, no, no, wait. It says we can’t be seen playing other games.”   
  
Elsa’s shoulders sagged and Emma sighed, sliding further onto Killian’s leg until the back of her head rested against his chest. “God damn Zelda,” she grumbled.

He kissed her head.

“So what happens now?” Emma asked. “We’re only allowed to ever talk about Overwatch? What did Wesselton say?”  
  
Elsa winced. “Threatened to pull the money and the support heading into round two if we didn’t, his words here, cease and desist immediately.”   
  
“Fancy. Don’t these people have anything better to do on Thanksgiving?”   
  
“Apparently not.”   
  
Emma sighed again, her whole body pressed against Killian’s and he tried not to think about _that_ too much with a living room full of people and _another_ bump in the road or boss to battle or something that made sense in a video-game type of way. He wasn’t breathing well – chest moving too slowly to actually feel like he was breathing at all and Emma noticed, twisting back around with furrowed eyebrows and a concerned glint in her eyes and Killian was worried about _her_.

And Gold was trying to ruin everything. Again. If he had anything to do with ruining everything the first time around. Killian should have brought the murder board to Thanksgiving.

“Fine, love,” he said softly, answering a question she hadn’t actually asked and calling her _that_ in a living room full of people felt like some kind of relationship milestone.

Mary Margaret might have sniffled. Or tried to put more sweet potatoes in another Tupperware container.

“Alright,” Emma announced, sitting up straighter. “So, we stop streaming anything that isn’t Overwatch. We live and breathe this game until we become more popular than anything that’s promo’ed by the League because we’re better than that stupid team being promo’ed by the League. We play by Wesselton’s rules for now so we can get those new shirts, we sell them at the second round, we win the next round and then the other round and then we win three million dollars.”  
  
Ruby grinned, the smile inching across her face slowly and even Regina looked a little impressed. Robin looked like he was already trying to plot his best man speech.

“Everybody got it?” Emma challenged, and the whole living room agreed immediately.

“See, that’s how a pep-talk is supposed to go,” Ariel muttered.

They ate all the desserts and probably drank more wine than they should have and by the time Henry and Roland fell asleep, Killian had nearly forgotten about Gold’s latest move and anything that wasn’t just the smell of Emma’s shampoo.

“Still with me?” Emma asked, curled against his side with MarioKart sound effects in the background.

“Absolutely, Swan,” he answered and that felt like a promise too. “Hey, I have a question for you.”

“Only one?”  
  
“For now.”   
  
She smiled and it landed in the very middle of him and that was probably the alcohol and maybe the ridiculous amount of chocolate he’d consumed in the last three hours, or possibly just how much he loved her and _knew_ she was going to win three million dollars. “Go ahead,” Emma muttered, tugging on the front of his t-shirt to try and pull herself back upright.

“Where’s your nook?”  
  
“What?” she asked, and he nodded towards the corner of the living room, a plastic table in the spot where her air mattress should have been. “Oh, oh, a willing casualty to the holiday spirit. We were supposed to reinflate it later tonight, but I’ll probably just hang out here.”   
  
Killian’s heart sputtered at that and he knew that she didn’t mean what he wanted her to mean, but the follow-up was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Here?”   
  
“The couch,” she corrected. “Why what were you thinking?”   
  
It was probably the alcohol or the dessert or the freckles on Emma’s nose and Killian opened his mouth to ask _another_ question. “You want to come home, Swan? With me? I mean. Might make it easier to bring back the small grocery store Mary Margaret is giving me.”   
  
“Are you trying to get me to go uptown with you just to carry green bean casserole?”   
  
“No. I’m not taking the green bean casserole.”   
  
She let out a breathy laugh, drawing a few curious gazes, but she nodded in response and, twenty minutes later, Killian was desperately trying to get his keys out of his pocket with Emma’s lips trailing across his neck.

“Swan, I can’t think when you do that,” he muttered, voice just a bit strangled when her finger started tugging on the zipper of his jacket.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”  
  
“Look who’s cheating now.   
  
“Yeah, that’s also kind of the point.”   
  
He, somehow, managed to get the door to his apartment unlocked and that was probably for the best because they’d probably scandalize every single one of the neighbors he had no intention of ever meeting if they stayed in the hallway any longer.

They had, after all, already made out in one hallway that day.

Killian kicked the door shut behind him, groaning when his head bumped back against the wood and Emma gasped softly when he tried to pull her up towards him. “You’ve got to stop trying to lift me up,” she mumbled, not bothering to stop kissing him while she started talking. “I’m going to break one of my bones eventually.”  
  
“I’m not going to actually let you fall, Swan,” Killian argued, and he should reconsider every word he kept saying because they all sounded like _promises_ and Emma absolutely realized all of that.

“Smooth.”  
  
“Honest.”   
  
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”   
  
“You haven’t even taken off your shoes yet, there might be rules in this apartment.”   
  
Emma leaned back, quirking an eyebrow and good, this banter was good and easy and not even remotely heavy handed or emotional. Except she’d told him about Neal and he’d told her about Milah and they were totally dating.

He kissed her in front of her brother. More than once. On a national holiday.

“Are there rules in this apartment?” she asked. “That involve my shoes? Specifically?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian muttered, pulling on another zipper and tossing her coat on the ground and that was breaking his own rule. “No shoes. And no broken bones. And maybe we actually walk away from this foyer type thing.”   
  
“I don’t think that’s the technical term for it.”   
  
“Semantics.”

Emma laughed, the sound settling in between every single one of his ribs and Killian walked them away from the foyer, if that was what it called, directing them towards the bedroom and kissing her as soon as he took a step.

They left a trail of clothes in their wake, like cotton-based breadcrumbs, and it would have been somewhere in the realm of perfect if his shirt sleeve didn’t get caught on the plastic at the end of his left arm. He tried not to sigh or maybe just dissolve into some kind of puddle of disappointment right there in his own room, but Emma smiled softly at him, thumb tracing over his chin until he could actually bring himself to look at her.

“Hey,” she whispered, one hand wrapped around his prosthetic. If his lungs didn’t just explode then and there it was a scientific marvel. “I like you.”

Killian considered telling her then – that he loved her and wanted her in some kind of all encompassing, vaguely overwhelming type of way, but he got distracted by the way she kept staring at him and how he was almost certain he could feel her fingers through the plastic.

They were a mess of soft sighs and kisses and sounds he’d probably think about until New Years, at least, and the whole bed shook when they fall back on it, knocking off pillows that only arrived two days before.

“When did you even find the time to buy all of this?” Emma asked, and he couldn’t quite believe she was asking questions when he was trying to get the last bits of clothing off her body.

“Swan, you are being far too curious right now, love.”  
  
“It’s a legitimate question!”   
  
“It is,” Killian agreed, nipping at a spot just behind her ear that had her leg suddenly working its way over his and every inch of her was so goddamn _warm_ he could hardly stand it. “And I promise, love, I will answer every single question you’ve got. Later.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s fair.”   
  
“I thought so.”   
  
He leaned up, trying to remember where his wallet was or if there was actually anything in the drawer of the table next to his bed, but Emma started talking again and, suddenly, Killian couldn’t think. “I’m glad I’m here,” she said softly enough that he thought he imagined it. “I’m glad you wanted me here. Even if it was just to cart leftovers. And it’s not...it’s not because of whatever happened with the stream stuff or even how much I really didn’t want to sleep on that couch. I just, well, I’m not...words aren’t really my thing, but I like you. A lot.”   
  
He was somewhere in the realm of stunned, breathing through his mouth and the drawer next to the bed was halfway to falling onto the ground. “Those were good words, love,” Killian mumbled, the ends of Emma’s mouth tilting up. “A lot, huh?”   
  
“Yeah, a lot.”   
  
“Me too.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“Good,” she said, licking her lips and that was kind of distracting too when he was trying to make sure a whole box of condoms didn’t crash onto his floor. “You want to break some journalism ethics or something less lame sounding?”   
  
Killian laughed, pulling her flush against his side and kissing her with every feeling and every hope he could muster. “Yes, exactly that.”

And Emma stayed the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Video game drama! Making out! Staying the night in apartments! So basically Gold is the worst, Zelena is the worst, Cora is the worst and Emma and Killian are going to keep making out. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's the nicest.
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	20. Chapter 20

She kept coming back. And sleeping. Through the night. Several times a week. For the last two weeks.

Emma couldn't figure out when they’d settled into it, some kind of quasi-domesticity that felt a hell of a lot more comfortable than she expected, but two weeks after Thanksgiving and bringing a questionable amount of leftovers uptown, she kept finding herself uptown and she’d almost developed some kind of public transportation schedule.

And she wasn’t really freaking out.

She was kind of freaking out because, well, she was Emma, but she was also very warm and very comfortable and very well rested.

“Stop moving,” Killian mumbled, lips pressed against the back of her neck and an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and Emma smiled.

Into a pillow. Like she was...not her. Huh.

“I’m not moving,” she argued, disproving her point immediately by flipping around to face him. He hadn’t opened his eyes, but one side of his mouth quirked up and his fingers moved over her hip, dragging up towards her waist and the distinct lack of t-shirt she actually had on.

“Swan, you just moved.”  
  
“Whatever. How come you’re here?”  
  
“In my bed?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, nodding against the pillow and managing to tug on her own hair in the process. “This isn’t really your thing.”  
  
Killian opened his eyes, only to narrow them slightly when he looked at her, doing something absolutely ridiculous with one of his eyebrows. Emma tried to ignore whatever her pulse did at that, speeding up and slowing down and probably causing permanent damage to several different veins or arteries or whatever biological factor ruled over pulse.

It was too early for any of this.

And he never slept later than her.

At least he hadn’t in the last two weeks when they were, suddenly, sleeping together. And not sleeping together.

“My thing,” Killian repeated slowly, like he was testing out the words and Emma hummed, pulling herself up and managing to twist her leg up with his in the process. He bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut again and that felt like some kind of early-morning victory.

She could maybe use that.

Because while they’d fallen into _this_ , whatever it was – dating and domestic and so goddamn good Emma couldn't quite believe any of it was real – and Killian could never seem to sleep past seven in the morning and Emma was still kind of terrified of it all falling apart and their practices weren’t really as much fun anymore when they were all so nervous about saying the wrong thing on the live stream and getting sued.

Or losing their sponsorship.

And any potential to sell merch during the second round _event,_ thing in January.

And maybe all of _this_ was good and warm and comfortable and Killian kept staring at Emma like he might be thinking vaguely life-changing things, but she didn’t have a toothbrush there or anything in the shower and he always fell asleep with his left arm pulled as far away from her as possible.

“Swan,” Killian said softly, tapping a finger on the side of her chin. She blinked, jerking her head and wincing when she, somehow, managed to yank on her own hair again. “Where’d you go, love? You were critiquing my sleeping pattern and then you sort of just disappeared.”  
  
“Disappeared?”  
  
“Metaphorically speaking.”  
  
“Ah,” she muttered and he widened his eyes, waiting for an answer she didn’t know how to actually explain. “How come you get up so early?”

“What?”  
  
“You’re always up with the sun or something less cliché. Why? Is it a writing thing? Because I can’t figure that out. If you’ve got late deadlines, you should sleep, right?”  
  
Killian smirked, eyebrows twisting again and Emma tried not to let her impatience show on her face. “Have you been curious about my sleeping habits, Swan?”  
  
She scowled and the smirk fell off his face, quickly, but not quite easily, and it was way too early for any of this. She shouldn’t have asked. They’d been fine. They were happy and he was so ridiculously good at kissing, it made her head spin to just think of it, but Emma was curious and possibly, _definitely_ , in love with him and she wanted to...know.

Everything.

“As with most of these stories, it’s decidedly depressing and absolutely my brother’s fault,” Killian sighed, fingers moving again until they’d worked their way across Emma’s back, tracing out patterns against her spine.

“You know, you keep throwing out these qualifiers and I haven’t really heard a story about Liam that was actually all that depressing.”  
  
Killian’s eyes widened and for half a moment Emma didn’t realize what she’d said that was quite that surprising. Oh, well, fuck. She’d used his name. And that might have been the first time she’d done that.

Killian looked a little stunned.

“Ok,” Emma said, pulling her hand up and resting it on his chest and he’d tugged a shirt on at some point in the middle of the night. That seemed wrong. “So, early morning wakeup calls then? Something naval?”  
  
“No, no, well, yeah, eventually, but not at the start. When we were kids, my mom worked at a 24-hour diner a couple blocks away from here and she got stuck with overnight a lot. So Liam was in charge of...everything. Homework and dinner and making sure I actually got to sleep at some point. Which also meant that by the time my mom got home it was nearly six in the morning and then she was asleep and Liam was, somehow, responsible for getting me to school too.

He used her getting home as his own alarm clock and then he’d wake me up and there’d be some kind of breakfast and he’d ask if I finished my homework, again, even when he’d absolutely checked it the night before and he’d send me to the bus and it all kind of stuck. I wake up every time. No matter what. Even when I don’t want to.”

Killian sighed again, nearly smiling and Emma could almost _feel_ the memories. “What kind of breakfast?” she asked.

“What? That’s honestly your follow-up?”  
  
“Yes,” Emma answered flippantly. “What did you eat for breakfast?”  
  
“Probably twenty-five cent fruit from the cart two blocks away. And when I was in high school several cups of coffee.”  
  
“Starting ‘em young, huh?”  
  
He nodded, smile turned just a bit more honest and his fingers hadn’t stopped moving once. “Made taking the bus all the way downtown almost bearable,” Killian muttered, soft and there was more to that story, but it was so goddamn early still and Emma was half hoping he’d just suggest she go back to sleep. Next to him. Consistently.

Indefinitely?  
  
With a toothbrush.

Not in the bed, obviously. That would be insane.

“Swan,” Killian continued, and she didn’t realize she’d been staring at a piece of ceiling until she had to pull her eyes back towards him. He looked worried. About her. Maybe the toothbrush thing wouldn’t be as weird as she thought it was. “What are you thinking about, love?”  
  
“Way too many things.”  
  
“You want me to get you a pen?”  
  
“It might not be a bad idea, honestly.”  
  
He barked out a laugh and, just like that, the worry was gone, replaced with something that looked a bit like interest and a hell of a lot like want and his fingers stopped moving long enough to pull her flush against his chest.

He didn’t kiss her at first, just kind of...looked at her and it made Emma’s heart flutter and she bit her lip tightly to try and stop herself from asking more questions.

It was like they’re standing on some kind of edge, trying not to breathe too loudly for fear of falling off and his left arm was still twisted around at some kind of uncomfortable angle, even when Emma was so close to him she might as well be splayed across him.

“When did you get dressed?” Emma asked, fingers hooking just over the collar of the t-shirt until she was threatening to tear it.

“About ten minutes after I knew you were asleep.”  
  
“How did I not hear that?”  
  
“You have a tendency to sleep through most everything, Swan,” Killian chuckled, tugging her fingers away slowly and pulling her hand up to brush his lips across her knuckles and it was a distraction that probably would have worked if her mind weren’t coming up with a list of eight-thousand questions.

She must have blushed or something and she knew she scrunched her nose because that was a thing she’d done since she was seven years old and the kid in that one house in Tennessee told her Swan was a stupid last name.

And then she decked him.

She lost food privileges for the next day.

“Swan, you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, I’m going to go insane,” Killian whined, sounding younger than she could ever remember. It probably would have been cute if they weren’t wading in the deep end of decidedly bleak childhoods.

“It’s not a good story,” she cautioned, but he just lifted his eyebrows again and waited. He kept doing that. “Kids cry a lot in group homes and foster homes and places that don’t have parents. It’s...you know, they’re young and they wonder what they did wrong and what they could do more of and why anyone doesn’t want them. It ends, eventually, but you kind of have to get used to it if you’re ever going to sleep.”  
  
Killian didn’t say anything at first and Emma’s mouth felt dry, _depressing_ washing over her in waves in the middle of that very comfortable bed and she wished he’d moved his left hand. She wished he wasn’t worried about his left hand.

“When?” he asked suddenly.

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“You said it ends eventually. When did it end?”  
  
Oh. She understood. “You make it sound like I realized Santa Claus didn’t exist or something.”  
  
“It’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t shrug while she was still laying down or pressed up against Killian’s chest, but an effort was made and she thought she felt him kiss the top of her forehead. “Yeah, kind of,” she admitted. “I was...six. In Pennsylvania and a family was going to adopt me. I was going to move in. The one bag I owned was packed and it was...there was a plan.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath, several organs twisting at the memory. Killian ducked down, gaze even and he didn’t look worried – he looked like he absolutely loved her.

“But?” he asked.

“But, uh, they found out they were going to have a baby. A couple days before I was supposed to go. No one wants some random foster kid when they can have their own kid, right? The house I was staying in forgot.”  
  
“What?” Killian shouted, the force of his question taking Emma by surprise and there was a not-so-quiet _fury_ there that she wasn’t entirely ready for.

“It was a foster house. They get, like, ten dollars a day to operate and there’s three people there taking care of a dozen crying kids. There was a message and it got swept under some metaphorical rug or forgotten on a piece of paper another kid probably stole and it ended with me sitting on the porch of that house until it got dark and someone realize I hadn’t shown up for dinner. That’s when they told me and that’s...that’s when I stopped thinking or, you know, getting my hopes up."

He stared at her – emotion in his gaze and his eyes were too blue and too intent and Emma’s lungs were, absolutely, shrinking. She hadn’t thought about that in years, hadn’t actually _talked_ about it in years, not since David and Mary Margaret and that first night in Storybrooke and she’d never even told Neal that.

“That doesn’t make it right, Swan,” Killian whispered, toying with the ends of her hair where they’d managed to work over her shoulder.

She shrugged again. Or tried to. “It happens. I did warn you as to the depressing nature of the story, you know.”  
  
“I couldn't care less about the nature of the story,” he said gruffly and she didn’t expect _that_ either. She probably should have. “I am...that’s…”  
  
“It was a long time ago. I’m almost a totally functioning member of society now.”  
  
“You are…”  
  
Emma wished he’d stop cutting himself off. That wasn’t like Killian at all – cautious or maybe nervous and the words were supposed to be his thing. “Decidedly depressing,” she finished, trying to smile and well aware that she came up short. “As advertised.”  
  
“No,” he argued immediately, hand wrapped around her hip and eyes level with hers and so goddamn blue Emma was fairly certain she could get lost them. Or drown. That didn’t sound quite as romantic. “You are...everything.”

She might have gasped or just exhaled and it could have just been the entire world recentering, but there was a certainty in his voice that seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach and the very center of her being and Emma barely realized she’d moved until she could feel Killian’s hips press on top of hers and he, finally, kissed her.

He was exceptionally good at that.

Emma’s breath caught, trying to pull in oxygen through her nose or maybe just hoping to breath _him_ in and she gasped when he rocked against her.

There wasn’t, after all, much clothing left between them.

Except that stupid shirt.

“Take this off,” she demanded, tugging on fabric and twisting it in her hand. and it was a miracle she hadn’t already tore it to shreds.

“That sounded like a command, Swan,” Killian muttered. He dropped his head back towards her neck and her back arched when he trailed kisses down skin, inching closer to her collarbone and ignoring what was, absolutely, a command.

“Why did you even put it on?”  
  
He shook his head and Emma didn’t even think he realized it, but some of the fire that had flared to life in every inch of her seemed to temper slightly at the way his lips quirked down and he was balancing all his weight on his right hand.

“Talk to me,” Emma implored. It didn’t work.

He kept kissing her, like he was following a line or some kind of trail and she nearly laughed when his lips ghosted over her stomach, fingers following his mouth and she tried to catch her breath.

That didn’t work either.

“Killian,” she murmured, fingers tugging on his hair. That only seemed to refocus his efforts, kissing and _nipping_ and _God, his teeth_ and there would probably be marks, just above her hip where he seemed interested in staying for, at least, several hours.

“What, love?”  
  
His voice was low and gravelly and that same, stupid _husky_ tone it had been when she’d first thought the word husky and Emma couldn't seem to catch her breath.

He didn’t give her a chance.

He moved quickly, pulling himself back up and crashing against her mouth and Emma _did_ sigh at that, fingers carding through her hair to try and make sure that the Earth hadn’t actually fallen out of orbit when Killian started kissing her again.

She wouldn’t have argued staying like that for the rest of the day – it was cold outside and, probably, snowing and if they didn’t move out of the bed then the fire in the very center of her couldn’t possibly be extinguished and maybe she could broker the subject of toothbrushes.

Emma moved, twisting underneath Killian and working a very particular sound out of him that would probably turn the fire into an inferno and she wanted to hear it, at least, sixteen more times. God, she could feel him in every single inch of her, arm working under her back to try and tug her even closer to him and she had to keep her feet pressed into the mattress to make sure she didn’t melt against him.

It didn’t matter.

Killian moved, shifting and letting his hips just _drag_ against her and it was slow and ridiculous, Emma’s hand scrambling for purchase on his back and the bottom of his hair.

He hissed when she tugged too hard, brushing off her quick apologies with more kisses and his tongue against her lower lip and Emma’s eyes fluttered when he shifted his weight, moving against her again and dragging his fingers down the inside of her thigh.

“You’re a tease,” Emma accused, but he just chuckled against her neck and dropped back to her collarbone and he was probably going to leave a mark there too.

“The opposite in, fact,” Killian argued. She could feel his lips quirk when he realized the mumbled words against her skin left goosebumps in their wake and Emma tried not to actually _tremble_ underneath him, back on that cliff edge and trying to swallow back feeling and emotion and he’d told her she was everything.

Like he liked her.

Like he loved her.

She hoped he did.

And she hadn’t allowed herself to want that since she’d come in off the porch and unpacked the few changes of clothes an orphan no one wanted was allowed to own.

“What would you say you are doing then?” Emma challenged, voice shaking just a little and Killian pulled back to grin knowingly at her.

“Taking my time,” he answered as if that were the most obvious answer in the world. “It is fairly early, isn’t it?”

He kissed her again before he, finally, moved his hand and one of them might have groaned or maybe that was both of them and that would have been kind of poetic, all things considered, and Emma realized she didn’t really care if she ever took a deep breath again as long as Killian didn’t move his hand.

She wished she could think of something to do except just rock her hips up, but she was too focused on chasing _something_ to worry about finesse and Killian didn’t seem to mind, quiet encouragements in her ear that just seemed to stoke that metaphorical fire until she almost believed exactly what he was saying.

There weren’t actual explosions – that probably would have been the opposite of the romantic setting they were going for – but Emma was fairly convinced she saw stars behind her eyes and Killian might have mumbled _everything_ again, pressing the word against her skin, just above her heart and that was almost _too_ romantic, but she couldn’t really breathe, so maybe she’d just imagined the whole thing.

God, she hoped not.

“You never took off your shirt,” Emma mumbled when she’d managed to regain her bearings, staring at the ceiling like it was actually the sky. It was definitely snowing outside.

Killian smiled again, any sense of _depressing_ forgotten while he was still hovering over her. “I was kind of preoccupied, Swan.”

“You can’t be comfortable like that.”  
  
“In a shirt?”  
  
Emma clicked her tongue and she should really work on getting oxygen back to her brain because she was just stumbling over sentences now and she couldn’t really think when Killian was still locked in between her legs.

“You’re thinking again, love,” Killian muttered, moving his fingers again and dragging his mouth against her jaw and Emma’s back moved before she’d given it explicit permission to do that.

He chuckled against her and, eventually, she’d blame the oxygen deprivation or that ridiculous thing he kept doing with his eyebrows whenever he looked at her, but it was really just _want_ and _hope_ and maybe a bit of love as well.

She shifted underneath him, hooking a leg over the back of his calf and resting her hand on his left, thumb brushing over the prosthetic. It took less than a full second for his entire body to freeze, eyes wide and chest moving quickly and his head darted from her face down to her hand and back up again until it kind of looked long Pong.

They’d fallen out of romantic entirely. She couldn’t think about Pong and romance at the same time.

“What are you doing?” he breathed, anxious and nervous and he actually tried to pull his hand away, but he was already balancing on one arm and he wasn’t going to let himself actually fall on top of her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said, and that was the wrong thing to say because Killian’s eyes flashed, dark and maybe just a bit dangerous, glaring at her like he hadn’t just caused some kind of metaphorical explosion in his own bedroom.

“What?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Is this what you’ve been thinking about? Was the shirt thing actually code for my hand?”  
  
“No! Well, yeah, kind of, but not in the way you’re thinking.”  
  
“Then how, Swan?”

Emma swallowed, trying to prop herself back up on her elbow, but she didn’t pull her hand away from the prosthetic and they’d fallen off the edge of that cliff. “I just...if I weren’t here would you keep it on?”

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, shoulders heaving just a bit and maybe they should talk to Lily about the air circulation in the room because it seemed very difficult for both of them. Killian shook his head, jaw tense when he swallowed and Emma exhaled.

“So then…” she started, but he just shook his head again and she could almost see the shadow move over his face.

“So then I’m not going to do that.”  
  
“Why not?”

Killian glared at her, leaning back on his heels, precariously close to the edge of the bed. They were wading in metaphors. “Because,” he snapped, yanking his arms back to his side and promptly crossing them over his chest.

“Because?”  
  
“Yes. Because it’s...Swan, we can’t keep doing this depressing thing. It’s...well, it’s depressing. And this is the worst of it. It’s not good.”  
  
“I’m not expecting it to be good,” Emma said, pulling her legs out of from underneath him and trying to work her way back towards him. He flinched.

She sighed softly, reaching out anyway and he didn’t put up much of a fight when she tugged his arms apart, tracing over plastic and rivets and she’d never really looked at it that much, knew he tried to keep it out of her eye line and the thought made her whole body ache.

It didn’t look comfortable, the skin of his forearm pressed down tightly underneath the edge of it and there were more clips and not-quite buckles than she expected. He was stiff underneath her, like he was scared to move too much and send her running to the metaphorical hills and Emma couldn't imagine a situation where she would run.

Not anymore.

Not after _everything_.

“Does it hurt?” she asked softly. He stuttered when her fingers moved back towards skin, the tiny hairs she could barely make out on the back of his arm practically standing at attention.

“Not so much anymore. It hurt like hell right after though. There was a lot of medicine. A whole schedule. Gina made a chart. Robin kept an alarm on his phone.”  
  
“Of course they did,” Emma laughed, bringing his arm up to press her lips on skin and just along the edge of plastic.

Killian stared at her, breathing through his mouth and she could see his chest move on every inhale, his shoulders taut and a muscle in his temple nearly jumping when he tilted his head slightly. “Emma,” he whispered, and the fire was threatening to combust right under her skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop either, moving in nonsensical patterns across his forearm and around his elbow and back down again until she paused just above where his wrist should have been. She kissed that too.

And Killian sounded like he was drowning. Or only just coming up for air.

“You could take it off,” Emma said, and for as much as he’d _promised_ things without actually using _those_ words, she hoped he understood what she was trying to do at some indeterminate time on a Friday morning with snow falling outside and everything felt painfully still.

Killian shook his head again, slowly – but it wasn’t the objection it could have been. It was disbelief and maybe something that felt a bit like _stunned awe_ and Emma’s heart pounded in her ears. That was biologically impossible.

Emma took a deep breath, tongue darting over her lips as she tried to draw on a certainty she’d only discovered in the last two weeks. “That wasn’t a command,” she mumbled. “But if I get to be everything, than you do too. And I...I like you. All of you.”  
  
It wasn’t the _I love you_ it should have been, but it had only been a few months and there was so much outside of that tiny little bubble they’d found themselves in and Emma wanted with a kind of fervor she couldn’t remember ever having.

She should have told him then.

Killian closed his eyes lightly, exhaling softly and Emma wasn’t expecting the kiss, but she didn’t argue it either, just moved back against him in a rhythm that was becoming familiar and comfortable and certain.

“It’s really not pretty,” Killian warned again.

Emma nodded. “I know.”  
  
He took a deep breath, a weak smile on his face when he started working on buttons and clips and one strap that seemed to run around his entire arm. Emma tried not to move, tried not to breathe too loudly or send _him_ running and maybe they were both a little broken.

That would have almost been poetic too.

It only took a few minutes, but they were the longest few minutes of Emma’s life and Killian didn’t look at her immediately when he leaned around her back, dropping his hand on the nightstand next to the bed.

HIs eyes flickered back towards her, tongue darting back out towards his lips, but he didn’t blink when Emma’s fingers fell back on the end of his arm. He didn’t flinch.

There were scars everywhere, raised skin that, at one point, must have been angry and red and painful, but had settled into something a bit calmer and lighter, knotted together and crisscrossing over the end of his arm. The ridges scratched at the pad of Emma’s finger when she trailed across one of them.

“Emma,” Killian repeated again, a warning and maybe an acceptance all in the two syllables of her name.

She shook her head, bending her neck quickly and kissing where her fingers had just been.

He let out a strangled sound – a mix between a gasp and a groan and a _growl_ – and Emma barely had a second to realize what was happening before felt her back colliding with the mattress again and they knocked half the pillows on the floor.

Killian moved quickly, mouth landing on hers – hot and heavy and Emma felt her eyes close out of instinct, trying to burn the feeling into her memory and that almost went with the fire metaphor.

“Shirt,” she mumbled, tugging on the end of the fabric and he laughed softly, humming in the back of his throat when he used one hand to tug the thing over his head. It landed on top of a pillow. “That was definitely a demand this time.”  
  
He laughed again, but there was no sarcastic retort, no slight innuendo or joke about _getting him out of his clothes_ and when Killian pulled back slightly to look at her, Emma had to bite back a gasp.

He looked calm and needy and vulnerable all at the same time, a hurricane of emotions and feelings and eyes that felt like they could see straight through her and wouldn’t particularly opposed to that idea.

“Absolutely everything,” Killian mumbled, and Emma wondered if he’d meant to actually say the words out loud, but she didn’t care when she could feel them working their way through her like they were jumpstarting her whole body and when he moved again, shifting against her she felt like she could, finally, breathe.

Ruby nearly crowed when they walked into Granny’s twenty minute late to practice and Killian had offered to take his own cab because, technically, they were breaking the rules, but Emma just shook her head, brushing her fingers through his still-damp-from-the-shower hair.

And she didn’t care about Ruby’s cackle.

Of course not.

“You guys are trying to stand a mile apart like you didn’t spend all last night making out,” Ruby shouted, not taking her eyes away from the laptop screen in front of her or moving her feet off the stool they were propped up on. “God, this guy is the worst.”  
  
“Who, Killian?” Anna asked, flashing a smile his direction at her own joke.

Ruby groaned and Emma rolled her eyes, making a beeline for the back of the bar and the coffee pot full of shitty coffee, but some much needed caffeine and they’d never really fallen back asleep.

“Where’s Elsa?” she asked, ignoring Ruby or the several feet of totally unwanted space Killian was absolutely putting between them

“You know you guys can be normal here,” Ruby answered. “It’s honestly weirder when you’re not. It’s like you’re trying too hard. You were normal on Thanksgiving. Mary Margaret adopted him. You eat all those leftovers yet, Jones?”  
  
“It’s two weeks after Thanksgiving, Lucas,” Killian said.

“Not an answer.”  
  
Emma groaned, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of her friends or how much she hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment or how absolutely disgusting the coffee was. “Seriously though, where’s Elsa?”

“I actually don’t know,” Ruby admitted, eyes flitting towards Anna like this was a conversation they’d already had several times. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re missing a good chunk of the rest of our team as well.”  
  
Emma hadn’t really noticed. She was, easily, the worst team captain in the history of the entire universe. “Where’s Scarlet?”  
  
“He had to shoot something for _The Post_ ,” Killian answered at the same time Anna mumbled something about _newspaper_ and _Christmas stuff_ under her breath.

“Did you guys not get around to discussing the particulars of our team member’s locations this morning?” Ruby asked knowingly, and Emma tried not to roll her eyes again. She’d give herself a headache.

The computer in the background made noise and Emma realized, suddenly, they weren’t actually playing the game, but were watching a stream and the voice on the screen was incredibly familiar. Emma couldn't suppress her groan at that. “Why are you watching this?” she sighed, leaning back against Killian’s chest out of habit.

HIs hand landed on her hip.

Ruby quirked a judgmental eyebrow at the move, lips twisted like she was trying to stop herself from shouting _I told you so_ in the middle of her grandmother’s restaurant, but Anna answered the question. “It’s research,” she explained, like that explained it.

“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Research. For...you know.”  
  
Emma stood up straight, a sudden mix of frustration and terror shooting through all of her limbs. “Anna, no,” she stammered. “You can’t...we can’t do that.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because that’s not our job. That’s David’s job. It’s an open investigation! And we don’t even know that Gold has anything to do with any of this.”  
  
“I’m not worried about Gold,” Anna said evenly, and that caught everyone short. Ruby furrowed her eyebrows and Killian’s hand tightened slightly on Emma’s hip. “And I’m not worried about Hans either. Not really. He can...he’s an ass. I’m worried about Wesselton.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked sharply, jerking her head around when the door swung open, Elsa and Belle practically sprinting across the restaurant with, at first glance, what appeared to be a small library weighing them down.

“A little help,” Elsa shouted, stumbling just a bit as she tried not to run over the tourists waiting for tables at the front of the restaurant. A couple from one of the booths in the corner jumped up to help before any of the team even had to move and Elsa looked a little stunned. “Thanks,” she muttered, nodding when they started walking towards the bar.

“They’re probably from Iowa or something,” Ruby whispered, ignoring Anna’s quiet _shhhh_ when she missed the mark of _whispering_ entirely.

“Why Iowa?” Killian asked. Emma downed the rest of her coffee in a few gulps, making a noise when it hit the back of her throat and they were falling off topic. If there had ever been a topic to begin with.

Ruby shrugged. “Don’t you just think Iowa people are nice? Something about the corn?”  
  
“Corn.”  
  
“I mean what else is there in Iowa?” Emma asked, twisting slightly to join the conversation while Elsa kept thanking tourists and Anna texted.  
  
“A bunch of rivers,” Killian said. “Cedar Rapids. Elijah Wood’s from Cedar Rapids.”  
  
“Why do you know that?” Anna asked.

Killian grinned – like that was just a fact people just _knew_ , but Emma laughed when she realized. “Oh you’re a Lord of the Rings nerd too, aren’t you?”  
  
“Should I be offended by the use of the word nerd, here, Swan?” Killian asked, _teasing_ and _flirting_ obvious in the flash of his eyes and the tilt of his mouth and Ruby made some kind of disgusted noise, tapping her fingers impatiently on the bar.

“Can we focus, please?” she asked. Emma didn’t look away from Killian. Or maybe the other way around. “We have a crisis on our hands, you guys can make eyes at each other later. Go back to Killian’s apartment.”  
  
“What?” Emma snapped, leaning around her boyfriend, maybe, they still hadn’t really decided on terminology, to glare at her friend. Ruby smiled. She’d won.

“Don’t tell Mary Margaret anything.”  
  
“She’s my emergency contact.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Ruby mumbled, unconvinced, and the tips of Killian’s ears had gone red. “Well, if we could find some kind of happy medium between you guys acting like you’re not totally making out every free moment you get and actually making out every free moment you get, that’d be fantastic.”  
  
“You’re the absolute worst, you know that?”

“Nah, I’m taking credit for this. Who put Emma’s number in your phone, Jones?”  
  
“That just means you were encouraging a distinct lack of ethics,” Killian pointed out and Belle tried to turn her laugh into a cough, but it didn’t really work and they were never going to get anywhere. The Pan asshole on the stream started talking again.

About them.

He was talking about them.

The whole team turned as soon as they realized what was going on, varying looks, ranging from surprised to curious to absolutely enraged, on their respective faces. Emma was, decidedly, enraged.

“Who is that guy?” Killian asked, and the whole team made a noise of disapproval. “Is he streaming the game?”  
  
Emma nodded. “He goes by Pan and he makes a shit ton of money on donations and…” She trailed off when she heard her own name.

“Emma Swan?” Pan asked, voice twisted by whatever cheap distortion device he bought from Amazon. “You guys hear of her? She’s the captain of one of these teams in the League and she and her _girls_ are actually filming themselves. And putting it out there. Giving y’all something to salivate over, huh? She’s pretty, I’ll give you guys that. Not much of a player, but you know, you work with what you’ve got.”  
  
Her head was spinning or she was spinning or the world was spinning. That last one was supposed to happen. Emma narrowed her eyes, staring at the screen like Pan was actually going to step out of it and insult her to her face.

“God, what a fucking dick,” Ruby fumed, finally pulling her feet off the stool so she could actually stamp her foot for emphasis.

Emma glanced over her shoulder to find Killian frozen behind her, fury radiating off him and his grip on her side was bordering just a bit too close to tight. “Hey,” Emma muttered, turning and trying to smile. “It’s fine. He’s just some guy on the internet.”  
  
“Ehhhhh,” Elsa objected quietly. Emma’s neck was not going to stand up to this kind of conversation.

She snapped around again, Killian still a statue behind her, and Elsa flashed her an apologetic look. “We’ve been, uh, doing some stuff. Recently.”  
  
“Stuff.”  
  
“Research-type stuff. Me and Belle. And Ariel.”  
  
“Ariel?” Killian asked sharply, and Elsa nodded. Ruby was, suddenly, very interested in the ground. “What does she have to do with this?”  
  
“She knows how to use the internet.”  
  
“The internet is involved?” Emma asked, and even Anna rolled her eyes at the absurdity of that question.

“We play the game online, Emma,” she reasoned. “And it wasn’t so much knowing how to Google as much as it was knowing how to figure out IP addresses. Are you really not seeing where we’re going with this?”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly, glaring at Ruby when she scoffed quietly. “All that making out’s going to your head, Em. You should be proud of that, Jones. That’s a pretty major life accomplishment.”  
  
“Stop dancing around things, Lucas,” Killian growled.

Ruby’s head snapped up, gaze sharp and protective hackles raised. “I thought you were supposed to be perceptive, award-winner. Were you not listening to what this guy’s name is?”

“What...oh, fucking shit.”  
  
“Ah, there it is.”  
  
“How does that connect to Wesselton?”  
  
“You need your murder board?” Anna asked brightly, like saying the words murder board as some kind of unit was just something she did every day. “Will told me.”  
  
“Ah, of course. No, no, but I’d take a pen and maybe some paper. Or a napkin.”  
  
“Here,” Belle said with a smile that almost looked like she wasn’t still trying to contain her laughter. “And that’s why we needed Ariel. We needed to figure out if my guess was right.”  
  
“This was you?”  
  
Belle flushed slightly, shrugging and Ruby stared at her like she was thinking about making out as well. Emma tried not to get too frustrated, too quickly. “What is going on?” she asked, glancing down when Killian started scribbling on the notebook in front of him.

“Em, for real?” Ruby asked exasperatedly. “You know he just got another five hundred from that name. Add that to your murder paper, Jones.”  
  
“Stop calling it a murder paper,” Killian grumbled.

Emma stood back up, twisting her fingers together and trying to understand why everyone knew exactly what was going on and it hit her suddenly and, if she was being honest, just a bit aggressively.

It kind of hurt.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, and Ruby smiled at her like the Cheshire cat. That didn’t fit the Peter Pan narrative.

“Ding ding ding,” Elsa muttered. “He wasn’t happy when he found out.”  
  
Killian dropped his pen, the chart barely legible and it kind of looked like he’d written the whole thing in shorthand. “When who found out?”

Elsa winced, squeezing one eye closed and twisting her head back and forth slightly. Emma tried to will her heart to a normal rhythm, focusing on Killian’s left hand on her back and everything uptown and the change of clothes she’d left on his floor that morning.

“Ok, so we took a vote,” Elsa started. “And it was unanimous. Mostly because we were all ridiculously pissed off, but, well, we probably should have waited. It’s just Ruby said…”  
  
“Hey,” Ruby cut in. “This is not on me. Emma didn’t answer her phone.”  
  
Emma stared at them, pulling her phone out of her back pocket to find that she did, actually, have six missed calls from the night before. Huh. “What did you guys do?” she asked.

“We voted,” Anna said. “On getting rid of Wesselton. Because of what we found. Or, rather, what Ariel found after I told Belle to tell her to check some things out.”  
  
“Straight sentences, Anna.”  
  
“Fine, fine, fine. Ok, so a couple days after Thanksgiving, I was going through Twitch to see what was going on and if there was a way to get around that exclusivity thing when I stumbled onto Pan’s stream and started watching. And I noticed that there were all these ridiculously huge donations, but they only showed up once an hour or so. And they all had different names. I couldn’t figure it out. But Pan would make sure to talk about them every time. When he wasn’t talking about us.”  
  
“Us?” Emma echoed, and Anna nodded.

“Yeah, that’s a thing that’s happening pretty regularly now.”  
  
“But if that’s...why would he do that?” Emma glanced around, staring at her team and Killian and none of them had an answer, but he pressed a kiss to her cheek and her heart seemed to settle a bit at that.

“Because he’s the worst,” Ruby said simply, Killian’s hand moving up towards Emma’s shoulders and tucking her against his side. “Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Emma mumbled. “Ok, keep going, Anna. So we think Pan is...Neal?” Anna nodded. “And he’s getting all this money from donors and the internet, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he need to be doing that if he’s playing for Second Star?”  
  
“Ah, see that’s what I was thinking,” Anna said. “It doesn’t make any sense. When you think about it that way.”  
  
“And how should I be thinking about it?”  
  
“What if all that money was coming from one, specific donor?” Belle asked, tapping on Killian’s not-quite-legible chart.

“Holy shit,” Killian mumbled. Ruby actually laughed.

Emma shook her head, blinking and breathing quickly and she should make her own chart. She should go back uptown that night.

So, naturally, the door swung open – David, in full _detective_ glory, an actual shoulder holster peeking out of his jacket, brushing snow out of his hair and scanning the dining room like they wouldn’t all be perched at the bar.

“The goddamn lawyer shut it down,” he yelled, drawing the attention of those same tourists from before who were, suddenly, not quite as entertained by the lot of them in the corner. “He walked into the precinct and said he _heard we were looking into things_ and put a goddamn cease and desist on my desk.”  
  
“Can he do that?” Belle asked, but she wasn’t looking at David.

Elsa nodded. “I mean, what we were doing wasn’t totally by the book. If you want to get technical.”  
  
“Ah, well, it was good intel,” David reasoned, nodding when Ruby swung around the edge of the bar and held up the pot of coffee in question. “We can maybe get a warrant or something now. Go through his history.”  
  
“If he hasn’t deleted it.”  
  
“That’s a good point.”  
  
“Hi, David,” Emma shouted, waving her hands in her brother’s face. “How are you, David? Are you working with my team, David?”  
  
He flashed her a smile over the top of his coffee cup, grimacing when he realized how shitty the coffee actually was. “Hello, Emma,” he said evenly. “I’m fine, Emma. Are you ever going to come home again, Emma?”  
  
Ruby cackled, throwing her hand out to grip Emma’s arm tightly and even Elsa chuckled lightly. David looked victorious. Emma huffed, yanking her arm away from Ruby and nearly elbowing herself and Killian in the process. “Can someone give me a straight answer as to what the hell is going on?” she asked.

“I was getting there,” Anna mumbled. “The Detective just had to steal all my storytelling thunder.”  
  
“My sincerest apologies,” David joked, and Emma was a little stunned that anyone could actually make a joke when it felt like she was going crazy. “Go ahead, Anna. Where were you, exactly?”  
  
“Neal’s getting all his money from Wesselton.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Emma screeched, and David looked nearly contrite.

“We can’t really prove it because we can’t really prove any of this,” he said. “But Anna and Belle have, how did you guys put it the other day?”  
  
“We’ve been stewing,” Belle grinned.

“Right, right, well they were stewing over this Pan guy on the stream and connecting dots and Anna, unfortunately, already knew Hans the sleazy lawyer and so, by extension, she just assumed Neal was an asshole. Plus, you know the Peter Pan connection is almost painfully obvious.”  
  
“I don’t think any of them are trying to avoid that,” Killian muttered, every head twisting towards him. His ears were still read. “I think they’re trying to hide in plain sight. It’s so connected it doesn’t make sense, but then it does, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I still don’t think I get it,” Ruby admitted, voicing Emma’s opinion before she could. “How did you figure out it was Neal?”  
  
“That’s Ariel’s victory, not ours,” Belle said. “She did a bunch of stuff that might not have been totally, you know, by the book, and maybe on Mills Media resources and figured out where the stream was coming from and...well, David ran some stuff and the apartment matches up.”  
  
Emma gawked at her brother, eyebrows pulled low and her mind couldn’t keep up with this.

Neal wasn’t just in the League and the captain of, maybe, the only real competition they had, he was _talking about her_ on the internet and bashing her team and playing to the fanboys and he was getting money from Wesselton.

Her sponsor. _Their sponsor_. Who had connections to New Orleans. And maybe Gold.

Oh, shit Gold.

It all came back to Gold.

“Remember when we thought it wasn’t one, great, big conspiracy theory?” Emma asked, twisting back to Killian. He smiled softly at her, understanding in his gaze when he bent his head to kiss her.

“What happens next, Swan,” he whispered, squeezing her hip. She nodded.

David coughed pointedly, Emma rolling her head onto her shoulder. “Go ahead, Detective,” she muttered.

“Wesselton is connected to Gold. I don’t know if it has to do with the New Orleans thing or not, but Ariel found that all those big donations were coming from the same IP. It’s...almost painfully dumb, her words, but Wesselton is giving Neal all this money. I just can’t figure out why.”  
  
“To build him up,” Anna and Killian said at the same time, matching smiles on their faces when they realized.

Emma wished these realizations would stop attacking her behind the bar in Granny’s. She was having a hard time keeping her balance. “Oh my God,” she muttered, shaking her head and tugging on her hair. “Ok, ok, let me get this straight. Our guy Wesselton, who very conveniently knew Elsa and Anna’s family and was the only major name willing to actually sponsor us, is pumping up Neal’s brand on the internet to make it look like he’s got this huge, diverse fan base that’s giving him a shit ton of money, right?”  
  
“Yup,” David agreed. “That was good, Em.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. He laughed. “Alright, alright, but no one knows that Pan is Neal. Or Neal is Pan. We didn't know that until we broke into his internet!”

“Yeah, Em, that’s not how you phrase that,” Ruby muttered.

“Whatever. What I’m getting at is that even if Wesselton is giving Neal money, why? What purpose does that serve? To Wesselton or Neal or Gold?”  
  
No one of them said anything. Until Killian did. And he didn’t sound particularly happy about it.

“What if...that’s part of the plan?” he asked. Emma shook her head, thoughts still twisted and half of them were still uptown and she just wanted to play video games and make her brother proud. Or something less hokey.

“You think?” David asked.

“I mean, maybe? We know Gold is an absolute cretin, right?”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
Killian smiled, arm still around Emma’s shoulders and a quick kiss against her temple before he started talking again. “Tell my editor that,” he said. “If Gold is pulling strings the way we think he is, then he bumps up Neal, builds the audience, likely with his own money through Wesselton, if that connection plays, it’s another way to broker the talent. He’s just making more money.”  
  
“You think he’s double dipping?” Elsa asked. Emma felt like she’d been run over by several trucks and, at least, six different subways.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, repeating Killian as she grabbed his chart and starting drawing her own lines. “Back track for a second. You guys went to Wesselton?”  
  
Elsa nodded, looking like she was admitting to the crimes maybe Gold orchestrating. “We...well we backed out. Of the sponsorship, I mean. I know, _I know_ , we should have waited, but we’re getting close to the next round, so we figured we’d just kind of cut ties now. Before we all get arrested for whatever laws we’re breaking.”  
  
“I wouldn’t arrest you guys,” David promised.

“That seems like a conflict of law-abiding interest.”  
  
“You’re not actually a lawyer.”  
  
Emma leaned back, letting Killian support most of her weight, arm moving away from her shoulders to wrap around her waist and she shouldn’t have had that coffee because it felt like it was actually churning in her stomach and if Gold was willing to double dip on Neal’s streaming popularity then…

They were betting again. They were throwing lines again. And Walsh had lost on purpose.

David seemed to sense her anxiety, eyes flitting towards her and he was almost painfully obvious when he nudged Ruby in the side.

Emma couldn’t breathe.

“I’m going to get some air,” she muttered quickly, practically sprinting towards the door and almost crashing into a whole family of tourists when she barreled out the door.

There was nowhere to sit.

There weren’t any seats in Midtown. And it was freezing. She still hadn’t bought gloves.

“Swan?”  
  
Emma spun, nearly losing her balance on a patch of ice she hadn’t noticed. He reached out, left hand steadying her and pressed up against her back and both of them stared at each other, back on the cliff or the knife or whatever metaphor made sense and Emma nearly told him.

She nearly blurted it all out – the betting and the lines and _jail_ , but then he tilted his head slightly, looking at her like she was the center of the universe or _absolutely everything_ and the words seemed to actually get stuck in her throat.

She couldn't tell him.

Not now. Not after all the running and the almosts and she just wanted to go back uptown.

“I never asked how your last story did,” Emma said, resting her head against Killian’s shoulder and trying not to actually shiver.

“Ok.”  
  
“Ok? That doesn’t seem very good. If we’re going to get shut down by Gold on the live stream front and now he’s trying to make Neal some internet star and….” She took a deep breath, or tried, and hoped her face didn’t look quite as manic as she felt.

“It’s ok, Swan,” Killian promised, thumb tracing over her cheek. He kissed her forehead. He kept doing that. She couldn’t tell him. She _wouldn’t_ tell him. “We’re still going to be fine.”  
  
“Five-hundred?”  
  
He laughed softly and Emma tried not to think about how much that block smelled like garlic. “At least, love.”  
  
“We won’t have any money. If word gets out that we walked away from a sponsorship, we’re going to get dragged by everyone in the League.”  
  
“That won’t make a difference, Swan. We’ll get a new sponsor. We write another feature, get some more hits, get A to figure out another way to get you guys live and then David arrests everyone. Maybe we’ll even write something.”  
  
“You can’t do that,” Emma argued. “Gold’s a board member. You can’t just start writing things that are going to trash him.”  
  
“That’s not how journalism works,” Killian countered. “And don’t underestimate Regina’s editorial integrity. If there’s another angle here, she’s going to tell it.”  
  
“You’ve made it sound very simple.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“And you keep using that word.”  
  
“We?” Killian asked softly, the question nearly drowned out when a cab honked at someone trying to cut through the middle of traffic. Emma nodded. “Got a good ring to it, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Clickbait.” Killian barked out a laugh, but it didn’t last long before he was kissing her or Emma was kissing him and they should really try to act like they didn’t just want to make out every free second they got. “It’s a good headline, though. I’d read it.”  
  
“Pulitzer incoming.”  
  
“All these journalism puns,” Emma muttered, still pressed up on her toes and Killian’s breath caught when her ice-cold fingers brushed against his neck.

“Facts, love. We only print the facts, here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramz on dramz on drama. As always, thanks for clicking and reading and sticking with me on this mess of increasingly dramatic words. 
> 
> Come shout on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	21. Chapter 21

“This is a bad idea.”  
  
“Swan, you can’t keep saying that, you’re going to make me think it’s a bad idea.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on her face and maybe Killian was winning. Something. He had no idea what he could be winning in the backseat of an Uber he’d called himself because Regina refused to actually use Mills Media resources for his, as she put it, _ethical transgressions_ , but he hadn’t told Emma that.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

The car skid to a stop at a red light and they still had, approximately, eight-thousand blocks to go and, at latest count, Emma had tried to crack her knuckles seventeen times. It only worked twice. There was probably something scientific about that, but there was also probably something scientific about the way he wanted to kiss her as soon as he saw her and Killian would rather consider those things than any of the absolutely legitimate reasons that this was an absolutely terrible idea.

“It’s going to be fine,” Killian lied, and Emma actually scoffed, leaning back to rest her head on the top of the seat and there were, somehow, still several pieces of snow in her hair.

Maybe he could ask Mary Margaret about the science of that. He wasn’t even sure if Mary Margaret taught science.

And she’d been far too busy making them pose for photos in the living room, like they were going to prom instead of the Mills Media annual holiday party, to worry about anything even remotely scientific.

“C’mon, this is major,” Mary Margaret shouted, and it felt a bit like getting disciplined. Although Killian wasn’t sure if he was getting grounded or getting detention or just made to pose with his girlfriend for far longer than should be required.

Emma groaned, rolling her whole head with frustration and leaning back against his chest and he’d actually taken the tuxedo jacket off because they’d been standing in that apartment for so long he was in danger of overheating.

“M’s, we have to go,” Emma whined. She shifted her shoulders which, by extension shifted her whole body, pressed up entirely against Killian’s front and he bit his lip until he could taste blood so he didn’t make some kind of absolutely _inappropriate_ sound in front of Mary Margaret.

That might have gotten them out of the apartment earlier.  
  
Mary Margaret was not deterred, pushing back on Emma’s shoulder until they were actually posing and she must have done thumb exercises to take that many pictures at once. “David wanted to see you guys,” she said.

“David knows what I look like. David knows what Killian looks like.”  
  
“He’s never seen me in a tux, Swan,” Killian argued, earning a growl or a groan for his effort and he’d done it for the reaction. He flashed her a grin, twisting her around until she was facing him and he couldn’t come up with a reason not to kiss her – Mary Margaret kept taking pictures.

And Emma looked...incredible.

He’d made sure to point that out when Emma kept mumbling what an _absolutely, God awful idea this is_ and, well, maybe she was right.

But that dress was incredible and red and perfect and Killian cared about the pros and cons of this idea as much as he cared about Mary Margaret seeing him kiss his girlfriend.

So he acted on both and let Mary Margaret take more photos – even agreeing to put his tuxedo jacket back on because it _looked more official_ – and nearly an hour and a half after he’d knocked on the door in Turtle Bay, he and Emma were in the backseat of an Uber and trying to convince each other that this was all going to be fine.

He’d bought her flowers.

Things couldn’t go wrong after he bought flowers.

There were rules.

“Did I apologize for Mary Margaret yet?” Emma asked suddenly, and that wasn’t the question he expected.

Killian shook his head slowly, his self-inflicted lip wound still stinging just a bit. “You don’t have to do that, Swan.”  
  
“I wasn’t expecting her to go so full-on mom there. I think it was because David had to work and they honestly do consider me their kid and I’ve been totally freaking out about, well, I mean, everything I guess and…”   
  
“Emma,” Killian interrupted, and her eyes widened and she lost her grip on her phone when it started to vibrate loudly in her hand. “You don’t have to explain any of that. It was nice. The whole thing was nice.”   
  
“That is one way to put it.”   
  
“What’s the other way?”   
  
She sighed softly, grabbing her still-vibrating phone and the sigh turned into a groan with maybe just a hint of exasperation. “I should have figured,” Emma mumbled, nodding towards the phone when Killian lifted his eyebrows. “Mary Margaret sent it to everyone.”   
  
There were, at least, twenty text messages in her inbox – Ruby had started messaging one capslock’ed letter a time, while Belle and Elsa both seemed more included towards emojis and Tink just sent a string of exclamation points.

“No Anna?” Killian asked, a bit surprised at that lack of text-based excitement. His phone vibrated in his pocket. “Ah, of course.”  
  
He tugged the offending piece of technology out, balancing it flat in his palm and Will was on some kind of messaging spree. Emma made a noise in the back of her throat – the exasperation morphing into amusement rather quickly – and Killian’s phone was going to self combust.

**8:12 pm: Hook, seriously, where are you?**

**8:13 pm: Hook, you guys are very late. Gina is pissed that you’re late. You’re going to miss out on all the appetizers.**

**8:13 pm: Ohhhhh I see why you’re late.**

**8:14 pm: God, Mary Margaret is a big fan of group texts isn’t she? Anna’s phone is going to snap in half.**

**8:14 pm: Oh, yeah, I brought Anna. Get on our level of showing up to major media events on time, Hook. And make sure to point out to Emma that Elsa didn’t make us pose for photos like we’re sixteen.**

**8:15 pm:** **_photo_ **

“Oh my God,” Killian mumbled, and Emma had moved at some point, sidled up next to him until her shoulder brushed against his arm. “Look at this.”  
  
Will’s jacket was definitely velvet, a tie clip that he’d probably spent far too much money on, practically reflecting the lights in whatever ridiculously expensive loft this event was being held at. He had his arm wrapped tightly around Anna’s shoulders, her arms out straight as she pointed the camera and her own wide smile, hair twisted up into some kind of elaborate pattern and a bright blue dress.

They looked happy.

And if Will got to bring his girlfriend to a Mills Media holiday _extravaganza_ , then Killian got to bring his girlfriend.

If they were using qualifiers.

“They look good,” Emma said, tapping her finger on the screen. “He is right though, we are crazy late. We can absolutely blame it on Mary Margaret.”  
  
“It’s still fine, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah, but…”   
  
“No, none of that,” Killian objected, twisting slightly and he’d never actually put a seat belt on, dropping his phone on the leather in between them and resting his hand on Emma’s thigh. “This is...ok, it’s probably a bad idea,” he admitted, and Emma’s laugh seemed to _bubble_ out of her, short and shaky, but a laugh all the same and that felt like a step in the right direction.

She nodded. “It is absolutely a bad idea. Seems to be throwing things in people’s faces, doesn’t it? Ariel said Regina was mad.”  
  
“When are you talking to Ariel?”   
  
“Is it bad that I’m talking to Ariel?”   
  
“That’s not what I asked.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, lips tilted up slightly and both of their phones made noise. “She gave everyone her card when she was at Thanksgiving and she’s been helping David with computer stuff and maybe you guys should get her new cards that say she’s almost working for the NYPD too now.”   
  
“Gina would have an actual fit.”   
  
“That might make tonight even more interesting,” Emma pointed out, and Killian couldn’t hold in his laugh or stop himself from leaning across the minimal amount of space between them and kissing her. Again. They’d have to work on that when they got out of the car.

Emma scrunched her nose, a _tell_ he’d picked up in the last few weeks as she kept staying uptown more and more and tapped lightly on his jaw. “I think we need to lay some ground rules.”   
  
“For?”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
They’d stopped at another red light and maybe he should have considered the possibility of traffic on Sixth Ave the Saturday before Christmas, but he’d mostly just been worried about the muscles in his face cramping when Mary Margaret kept taking pictures and how _incredible_ Emma looked in her dress.

“Did you buy a new dress, Swan?” Killian asked suddenly, and Emma jerked back slightly, blinking quickly. He grinned at her. “That seems like a yes.”  
  
“That seems like I didn’t say any words.”   
  
“So say some words.”   
  
She actually stuck her tongue out at him and it was probably meant to be a joke, but it was decidedly distracting and both of their phones were still buzzing. “Of course I bought a dress,” Emma grumbled. “You think I just had black tie appropriate clothing in the corner of Mary Margaret and David’s apartment? That doesn’t even make sense.”

Killian’s pulse picked up and his hand was still resting on her thigh, the fabric of that very new, incredibly red dress twisting under his fingers when he traced up towards her waist and Emma’s breath hitched. “Did I mention that you look incredible, love?” he asked softly, ducking his head and she froze when his lips moved along her neck and back behind her ear.

“Maybe once or twice, in between pictures, and then again when you likely scandalized Mary Margaret with all that kissing. And, you know, the flowers. Those were a pretty solid signal.”  
  
He laughed softly and maybe they’d scandalize the Uber drive too. “Ah, well, let’s try that one more time then. You look absolutely incredible, Swan. And I’m glad you’re here. Even if this is an absolutely terrible idea.”   
  
“That’s why we need ground rules,” Emma mumbled, rolling her shoulders back against the seat, but her hand found his wrist and the driver did not look pleased. He kept glancing at them in the rearview mirror.

“I am all ears, love.”  
  
“All hands, more like.”   
  
Killian’s whole body shook with the force of his laugh and the driver almost crashed into the car in front of him when he took his eyes away from the traffic to glare at both of them. Killian stopped laughing.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, picking up his tension immediately and maybe he could keep a list of all the reasons he loved her and then promptly put _that_ at the very top. “We’re fine. It’s fine.”   
  
“I feel like we’ve both collectively forgotten the definition of that word.” He took a deep breath, resting his forehead against hers and trying to let everything he loved about her seep into every single inch of him until he wasn’t freaked out by an Uber driver’s inability to pay attention to holiday traffic.

“We should probably stop making out. Tempting fate.”  
  
“Ok,” Killian agreed. “Rule number one, we get out of this car and no more making out in front of the journalism bigwigs. Even though Gina said she wasn’t sure who was going to be there.”   
  
Emma shook her head, amusement flashing in her eyes and they were only a few blocks away. “You are trying to add caveats to my rules, counselor,” she accused, pushing her hand on the front of his chest.

“Absolutely not. I’m just trying to seize the moment, as it were.”  
  
She kissed him. And he hadn’t been expecting that either.

Emma’s fingers dove into his hair, twisting and tugging and he might have actually sighed against her, tracing his tongue over her lower lip and trying to remember all the reasons he probably shouldn’t mess up her lipstick.

The driver coughed after what felt like a small eternity and Killian had forgotten about both him and the phone that was, now, twisted up under his left thigh. His shoulder pushed into the seat, not entirely comfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to move and Emma’s fingers wrapped around his prosthetic like it wasn’t actually a bit of plastic strapped to the end of his arm, staring at him with something that made him fairly certain they could start using qualifiers.

Even in front of journalism bigwigs.

Well, maybe not that. Regina would probably kill him if he did that. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

“What’s the second rule, Swan?” Killian asked, fingers brushing against the curve of her waist and he couldn’t really work his hand underneath her coat, but he was going to keep trying.   
  
She was still breathing just a bit quicker than normal when she answered. “Focus on the story. And how many hits Ruby’s feature got.”

“How do you know that?”  
  
“Were you totally ignoring me when I mentioned Ariel and I were talking? That was part of the talk. And if you don’t think Rubes demanded a daily update on hit totals then you are absolutely insane. Although, at least, two thirds of those hits were just Granny clicking over and over again. Does that change anything?”   
  
“I don’t think so. You’d have to ask A.”   
  
“Remind me to do that when we see her. You know she’s bringing a guy.”   
  
“So I heard.” Emma quirked an eyebrow and Killian tried not to roll his eyes – details of Ariel’s upcoming date and the dress and the ridiculous number of heel options he’d been required to look at in the last few days flashing in front of his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, love. She’s almost my assistant.”   
  
“That should be rule three. Don’t call Ariel your assistant.”   
  
“Maybe that should be rule one,” Killian muttered, finally pulling his phone out from underneath him to find a string of texts from his definitely-not-assistant. She’d sent a photo too. “God, why does everyone think we want to see what they look like with appetizers in their hand?”   
  
Emma smacked at the front of his jacket, a loud _oh jeez_ floating through the entire car. “We’re the parents,” she sighed.   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“God, make that rule number four or sub-rule A or whatever. Try to embarrass all our quasi video game children equally.”   
  
“Swan, I have no idea what you’re saying to me.”   
  
“You think this is how Mary Margaret just feels all the time?” Emma asked, clearly not listening to any of his questions. Killian tried to shrug like he knew what was going on. “Oh, God, you’ve got to tell David that you’ve usurped him as metaphorical dad because watching his face when he realizes he’s been overthrown and lost control of a potentially even bigger kingdom is just going to be really entertaining. You don’t even have to get me anything for Christmas then.”   
  
Emma’s eyes widened when she realized what she’d said and Killian chuckled lightly. “I just,” she stammered. “If...we haven’t actually used qualifiers or definitions yet.”   
  
“Emma, there’s a pile of your clothes sitting in the corner of my apartment.”   
  
“There are several piles of clothes and an air mattress sitting in the corner of David and Mary Margaret’s apartment. That doesn’t mean I’m dating them or considering buying them vaguely romantic Christmas presents.”   
  
“Considering?”   
  
“Bought. Past tense. Whatever, journalist.”   
  
Killian laughed loudly, kissing her again and he could feel some of the tension melt off of her. He tried not to let it inflate his ego too wildly – that should be a rule too. “Ok,” he said, determined to keep his voice light and he couldn't combine _this_ conversation with a much different and even more emotional conversation. Even if he wanted to. “What rule are we on? Rule five? Make that one being able to use antiquated, high school qualifiers because I’ve been thinking of you as my girlfriend for months, at least.”   
  
“Months?” Emma repeated sharply, and Killian nodded.

“At least. And hoping far far longer.”  
  
“What a sap.”   
  
“Romantic, Swan. It’s romantic.”   
  
She tugged on her lip – the color there a lost cause to the romance – and her cheeks were tinged just a bit more red than usual. “I’ll take a little romanticism. Although maybe rule six should be to temper on that in front of people who are maybe trying to ruin anything.”   
  
“We’ve circled back around to tempting fate. You know I’m not much of a fan of this whole fate thing. Seems a little old fashioned.”   
  
“We just decided to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend,” Emma argued, grinning at him and one of her hands was still firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. “In the grand scheme of old fashioned, I think that wins. So, that’s, what? Six rules? Seems like enough for one night, don’t you think?”

“I’ve got a follow up.”  
  
“Of course you do.”   
  
“You like it, Swan,” Killian teased, brushing his thumb across her chin. They were going to break rule one again. “And I’m still confused about whatever crown I’m usurping David for.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, trying to twist back towards him without actually draping her legs over his. “Oh, well, David and Mary Margaret have always been my kind of parents. Tonight is a very good example of that. And they adopted Ruby while we were at school and then that extended to Wail when we started playing the game.

But, uh, now, I think we might be kind of in control of Wail and the journalism side. In some kind of Yours, Mine and Our sort of way? Except without the divorce or marriage or...I think Dennis Quaid was in the army in that movie?”  
  
“Coast Guard,” Killian corrected softly, heart hammering at the idea that they were the de facto leaders and, possibly, parents of some kind of ragtag group of video game players and journalism wigs, big or small. “He was definitely in the Coast Guard.”

“I can’t believe you know that,” Emma breathed. Rule one was, like, three quarters of the way to just being thrown out some kind of metaphorical window. “And that’s almost Navy, right?”  
  
“There is water involved.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“I’ll make sure to tell David I’ve stolen his kingdom and expanded upon it, at least, twenty-six times in the next week.”   
  
“Yeah, that seems reasonable.”

“You want to work on rule four now, Swan, or are we just going to talk about early 2000’s movie remakes that didn’t have to happen?”  
  
Killian held up his phone, shaking his wrist slightly and this was the greatest idea in the entire goddamn world if it meant Emma smiled at him like that or let him keep thinking _girlfriend_ or, maybe, loved him. While wearing that red dress. And taking ridiculous photos in the backseat of a car that was, somehow, still stuck in traffic.

“Make sure you send it to Will so he knows how much better you look in a tux than he does.”  
  
He grinned at her, breathing as easily as he could remember in the last decade, or possibly his entire life, and tugged her flush against his left side, close enough that their heads almost touched when he tried to make sure they both fit in the frame.

“The compliments, love,” Killian muttered. “You’re going to make me think you’re vaguely attracted to me.”  
  
“Vaguely.”   
  
He sent the photo to the whole lot of them, telling them to save them appetizers. Ruby responded with half a dozen curse words. Mary Margaret possibly dislocated her thumb slamming it against the heart eyes emoji. Will sent twelve thumbs down and Robin responded with a photo of his not-quite-impressed face and a caption that Killian didn’t actually read.  

David didn’t answer. He was too busy working.

Killian made it his lock screen and he kissed Emma when they, finally, stepped out of the car.

He could hear Will groaning before he’d even actually taken a step away from Emma and the groan only made him want to take a step closer to Emma, call another Uber or hail a different cab and go back uptown because this was, absolutely, a very bad a idea.

That dress was far too distracting.

“Shut up Scarlet,” Killian grumbled, Emma’s fingers tracing lightly over the back of his neck. She pulled back slightly – and _that_ worked a groan out of _him_ and a chuckle out of Will.

“Scarlet, why are you just lurking on the sidewalk?” Emma asked. “Aren’t you cold?”  
  
Will shrugged. “Warm blooded. And I got sent out here because Locksley has to do fancy editor type things and hob nob and he couldn’t be used as a spy to see when Hook actually decided to grace us with his presence.”

“Merry Christmas. How was that thing with _The Post_?”

“Festive.”  
  
“You know that sounds kind of bitter.”   
  
“Yeah, it was supposed to be.”   
  
Killian shook his head – blinking when it started to snow again and it really was freezing out. He hoped that wasn’t a sign. He didn’t need the weather conspiring against him. “I can’t believe you just used the phrase hob nob in actual conversation. Did you leave Anna in there with Gina?”

“No, she’s right here under her invisibility cloak.”  
  
Emma tried to turn her laugh into a convincing cough, but it didn’t work. Will was far too busy glaring at Killian to even notice. “What’s your deal?” Killian sighed. “Honestly?”   
  
“I have no deal, Hook,” Will muttered, but that was some kind of flashing neon sign that he, absolutely, had several deals and they were never going to go inside. Killian lifted his eyebrows, wrapping his arm around Emma when she actually shivered.

“Now, Scarlet,” he demanded.

Will made a face, flexing both of his hands and, maybe, even jumping up and down a few times. “Cora is here.”  
  
Killian’s heart fell into his feet and then worked its way out of his feet and landed on the sidewalk where it was promptly covered by snow and froze. To death. Emma looked a little stunned.

“This was a bad idea,” Emma said softly, and Will made a noise that sounded a bit like agreement and a lot like gloating. Killian tried not to punch him.

“She probably won’t say anything, Hook,” Will promised. It didn’t matter. He just had.

Killian closed his eyes lightly, well aware of Emma’s gaze on the side of his head, and tried to take slow, steady breaths and, maybe, put his heart back in his chest. Or hand it to her. In a metaphorical kind of way. Anything else was weird. And gross. And he should tell her he loved her. Enough to bring her to an event that was a, decidedly, bad idea.

“What am I missing here?” Emma asked.

“Nothing,” Killian and Will said at the same time and neither one of them even tried to mask their groans at that.

“Wow, you guys practice that?”  
  
“No,” Will chuckled. “But go ahead and tell me how impressed you are.”   
  
“I can give you that. You’re wearing velvet.”   
  
“This is a look.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Whatever, not all of us are as classically attractive as Hook is. We’ve got to work with what fashion dictates. Plus, Cora doesn’t hate me, so I’m already winning this quasi-battle.”   
  
“It’s not a battle,” Killian argued, but he might have pulled Emma closer to him out of instinct. “And Cora hates everyone equally, don’t pretend like you’re not included in that.”   
  
“Ehh...she might have you most.”   
  
“Cora?” Emma asked. “Like Cora Mills? Is she actually going to commit murder during a holiday party in this absurdly fancy building?   
  
“No,” Killian answered at the same time Will mumbled “maybe” under his breath. “God, seriously, Scarlet you are the least supportive human being on the planet.”   
  
“Does he need to be supportive?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“You are a God awful liar.”   
  
Will made some kind of ridiculous noise, startling the person at the door whose job, it seemed, it was just to check invitations like they were in some kind of ridiculous romantic comedy and this really was an absurdly fancy building. “Jeez, the banter is so frustrating,” he whined. “I mean, it’s cute in, like, a you guys are totally in love type of way, but in this situation it is the most frustrating thing in the world.”   
  
Killian’s whole body felt too heavy – Will’s words drifting through the air and reflecting off snowflakes and he was going to kill him. That was the only possible response. He was going to kill Will Scarlet right there in front of that absurdly fancy building.

“Go away, Scarlet,” Killian hissed, twisting to look at Emma. She didn’t appear to be breathing. And she flinched when his fingers brushed over her cheek. “Swan?” he asked. She nodded. “It’s totally fine, Emma.”

Her head snapped up at that, green eyes flashing slightly and Will looked as out of place as he should. “Cora was talking to Gina,” he said quickly. “That’s why Gina couldn’t make any obnoxious Gina-like comments to Anna. You know, in case you were wondering.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Killian answered, not looking away from Emma.

“You should avoid Cora.”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And maybe Gina. At least for, like, a fifteen minutes after she finishes talking to Gina.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And maybe don’t...you know, do that whole staring longingly at each other thing.”   
  
“And we shouldn’t swim for at least an hour after eating,” Killian growled, twisting to glare at Will over his shoulder. “Yes, Scarlet, we’ve got it. You’ve done your job.”   
  
Will mumbled something that sounded like several different, rather creative curse words under his breath and Emma’s lips twitched slightly, eyes falling back to her heels and the snow was starting to stick to the sidewalk.

“So,” she said lightly, and there were no belt loops on his pants, but she made do with the front of his jacket, tugging lightly on buttons. It felt like his heart had worked its way back into his chest. “Cora Mills. Not your biggest fan, huh? You’ve got kind of a habit of that, don’t you?”  
  
“No,” Killian shook his head. “And yeah, maybe, in order of question. Gina told me she wasn’t going to be here. She doesn’t even live in New York. She usually spends most of her winters at the estate.”   
  
Emma laughed. He didn’t expect that. “The estate? God, is she a person or a movie villain?”   
  
“Definitely the second. She’s a piece of work. Shit, Gina is going to be pissed that she just showed up. I bet she’s got eighty-two opinions on appetizers and another seventy-six on web traffic.”

And his hit count. He didn’t mention that part. He should have.

“She’s going to be more upset about appetizers than web traffic?” Emma asked, but some of the nerves had left her voice. “That’s insane.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s journalism or something.”   
  
“I am kind of hungry.”   
  
Killian let go of the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, wrapping his hand up in Emma’s and it wasn’t nearly as cold as he expected it to be. “And it’d be a shame to waste that dress, don’t you think?”   
  
“I did buy it.”   
  
“Exactly. Come on, love. Let’s go avoid Cora Mills.”

It turned out that avoiding Cora Mills was not as difficult as Killian assumed it was going to be. She was, after all, very busy and very important and there was a whole website full of editors who were, suddenly, required to report on the success of their work as soon as Cora glanced their direction and none of them cared much about Killian or his feature stories or his date.

Who just so happened to feature rather prominently in those feature stories.

And Will was very determined to get all of them drunk.

“It’s an open bar,” he said, not for the first time, an hour after they’d gotten off the sidewalk and out of the snow. “They expect us to do this.”  
  
“I don’t know if they expect you to drink the entire stock,” Killian argued. Anna laughed softly, nursing her own glass of very expensive liquor and balancing rather precariously on her heels. “How many is that now?”   
  
“It is not your job to watch out for me, Hook,” Will grumbled. “Where’s Locksley? How come he’s not here taste testing this scotch? Isn’t scotch his thing?”   
  
“See, the fact that you can’t remember that kind of screams that you’ve had way too much to drink.”   
  
“Ass.”   
  
“Try harder.”   
  
Will scowled, half a second away from sticking his tongue out. Killian rolled his eyes, glancing back at a clearly amused Emma and the glass of wine in her hand and they’d both been taking advantage of the open bar as well, enough that there were tiny spots of pink on her cheek and everything, suddenly, felt delightfully warm and just a bit languid.

He wanted to kiss her a lot.

So he did.

There went rule number one.

Emma didn’t seem to realize at first, fingers carding through the bottom of his hair and scraping lightly against his head and the warmth was now bordering closer to a burn. Her heels made it easier to meet her straight on, but that also meant he could feel her _everywhere_ and the combination of alcohol, _that dress_ and Cora Mills lurking in the background of the night left Killian wanting and certain that walking into that building was the worst idea he’d ever had.

Will coughed pointedly, kicking at his ankle and Killian winced when he actually landed his shot. “Holy shit, Scarlet, God, relax,” he mumbled.

“Does that still hurt?” Will asked.

“Obviously.”  
  
Emma blinked, eyes darting between Killian and Will and back down to his ankle. “Still?” she repeated. “As in that’s been hurt before?”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian answered, ignoring Anna’s quiet _oohhhh_ and she’d had way too much tequila. Scarlet had had way too much whiskey. Killian had not had enough rum for this story.

“How do you think Locksley ended up becoming Killian’s pseudo-father?” Will asked, clearly not reading the situation at all. “Hook broke his foot junior year and he couldn’t really get around and it was...it was honestly almost depressing.”  
  
“Almost,” Killian mumbled, pressing the word against Emma’s hair. She leaned against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and maybe he could just have _this_ and that would almost be like rum. Maybe he was drunk if he was thinking things like that.

“I am telling the story, Hook,” Will said, and Killian held up his right hand in conversational defeat. “Anyway, Hook breaks his foot junior year, he’s got crutches and the entire power of the US Navy’s friends and family health care plan behind him, but Liam’s still somewhere in the ocean and he can’t actually make sure that Hook isn’t the idiot he is by default and takes care of himself. So who do you think he enlists?”  
  
“Was that supposed to be a military pun?” Emma asked, laughter just on the edge of her voice. Will was not amused. “Fine, fine, ok, he gets Robin to do it?”

Will winks – like he hadn’t made this all blatantly obvious from the get-go. “Exactly that. He gets Robin to check on his incredibly stubborn little brother, bring him to doctor’s appointments, make sure he gets his prescriptions filled and, suddenly, Locksley is mentoring Hook or something ridiculous and here we are, more than a decade later and not much has changed.”  
  
He nodded towards an approaching Robin, hand laced together with Regina’s and matching looks of general _disgruntled’ness_ on their faces. “Have you guys finished all the alcohol over here?” Robin asked sharply.

“It’s an open bar,” Killian pointed out.

“Yeah, but Scarlet’s been standing here for nearly an hour and, you know, that’s basic math.”  
  
“Rude,” Will mumbled, tapping the edge of his glass and then pointing back at Regina and Robin. “And you guys have done a pretty good job of stocking. Give Aurora a raise, Gina.”   
  
“Aurora did not plan all of this,” Regina hissed. “Are you drunk?”   
  
“Yes, why aren’t you?”   
  
“She had to talk to Cora,” Killian said, like it was obvious. “Hey, you guys seen A? She’s supposed to be here. With her date.”   
  
“She’s talking to Cora,” Robin muttered, and the whole group seemed to collectively gasp.

“Wait, what?”

Robin shrugged. “It didn’t look particularly good. That’s why we were finally allowed to leave the verbal beat down.”  
  
“What about?”

He widened his eyes meaningfully, pulling his lips back behind his teeth and Killian’s stomach churned at the look on his face, like he was practically begging him to _stop talking_ and this all felt painfully familiar. Like junior year and doctors appointments and reading over bylines.

Oh, well, damn.

“I need more to drink,” Killian announced, and he didn’t know if Emma or Will looked more surprised. Will actually looked a bit overjoyed.   
  
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he shouted, waving his arms like he was landing a 747 and trying to flag down one of the half a dozen bartenders Aurora had probably required to provide headshots in their applications. “Hey, can we just get...a whole bottle of rum over here?”

“Oh my God,” Regina mumbled, pressing her face against the front of Robin’s dress shirt. He’d taken his jacket off. “At least get glasses.”  
  
“That’s the spirit! God bless us, everyone!”   
  
“Yeah, I’m not sure that’s exactly what Tiny Tim was going for,” Emma pointed out, head still on Killian’s shoulder and her arm wrapped around his waist and he wished his friends would leave so he could just start spouting romantic nonsense.

Maybe once they get a bit more drunk.

That might make it less romantic.

It didn’t really matter because by shots two and three, the whole room had started to spin just a bit and Regina actually made a noise that might have been an actual _giggle_ and Anna looked like she’d just seen a small miracle. Will kept talking – telling stories and detailing Killian’s penchant for doing the dishes twice, just to make sure they were clean – and Robin kept tugging his phone out, showing pictures of Henry and Roland to Emma like she actually cared, but she looked genuinely interested and Killian’s heart kept doing that weird thing where it was trying to beat its way out of his body again.

Or maybe he was just drunk.

He was absolutely drunk because, at the time, the next few words out of his mouth seemed like the greatest idea he’d ever had.

“C’mon Swan,” he said, slamming down his once-again-empty shot glass. She lifted her eyebrows at him, one side of her mouth tugged up in amusement.

“Come on where, exactly?”

“The floor.”  
  
“We are standing on the floor.”   
  
“The dance one. Where the people are dancing.” Killian nodded towards the tiled section of the room a few feet away and the couples, none of whom had probably spent the last hour and a half drinking as much free alcohol as they could without drowning themselves. “Gina probably made Aurora cry for several hours in order to find the best band or string section. Whatever. There’s actual music. Time to take advantage of it.”   
  
Emma gaped at him and Regina flicked her fingers against his arm. He didn’t feel it. The alcohol was working. “Seriously?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Killian nodded, taking a steady step away from the bar. “For Aurora’s sake. And I’m ridiculously good at this.”  
  
“You might be a little drunk.”   
  
“Ah, well, that seems to be catching in this corner of the room. All the more reason to move, don’t you think, love?”   
  
Her mouth shifted again, like she was trying to fight back the smile and to hell with any of those rules. To hell with Cora. To hell with all of goddamn Mills Media.

Killian loved his girlfriend. She bought a new dress. He was going to dance with her.

“Yeah, ok,” Emma muttered, wrapping her fingers around his left hand and letting him weave her through the crowd. He dimly heard Anna’s camera shutter snap.

“I have never actually done this, you know,” she warned him when they finally found a spot on the tiled floor, feet nearly touching and even the ridiculous amount of alcohol they’d both consumed couldn’t quite dull the feeling of her pulled flush against him.

“I’m not going to test you, Swan. You ready for rule number...whatever we left off on?”  
  
“I think we’ve broken every single one of those rules.”   
  
They were moving already, swaying slightly and he hoped Aurora hadn’t actually been reduced to tears while finding that band because they were ok and this was ok and, for half a moment, Killian forgot that Cora was somewhere and possibly still yelling at Ariel about something.

“Ah, well, this is different,” Killian argued, voice low and he could feel Emma breathing against him. She kept brushing her thumb against the back of his palm and she didn’t say anything when his left hand rested on the small of her back.

“How do you figure?”  
  
“You bought a new dress. I couldn't be expected to follow those rules after that.”

She laughed softly, barely audible over the music and there was actually a string section and maybe she leaned into his hand just a bit. “What’s the new rule, then?”  
  
“Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”   
  
Emma smiled at him – and it felt like everything settled and the music seemed to echo through him and then maybe into his hand and he could almost feel her pressing against it. He was happy.

World-altering happy.

He loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount.

“What a line,” Emma chuckled, and they’d fallen into some kind of rhythm. “Why do you even know how to do this?”  
  
Killian shook his head, ducking down to press a kiss against her temple and maybe the rules were more like guidelines. “No line, Swan,” he promised. “And my sophomore year, I wrote a story about this whole new dance initiative on campus. Classes and rhythm and something about history. It was a series. It won some kind of college publishing award.”   
  
“Always about the story, huh?”

“No,” Killian said, the word tumbling out of him from some deep, dark place that he’d been fairly certain didn’t actually exist anymore. Emma pulled her head up slowly, blinking and her eyes were almost on the wrong side of glossy. “Emma,” he continued softly, moving his hand up her back and she just kept breathing, neither one of them falling out of rhythm and that might have been a sign too.

He appreciated that sign better than the snow.

“Still here,” she muttered, pulling their hands down until they were resting on his shoulder.

“I’m glad.”  
  
“Maybe not the worst idea ever. You do actually look better in that tux than Will does. Although you might be able to do velvet.”   
  
“Next Christmas.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah, if you want,” he wavered, and he kind of hated himself for that.

Emma’s teeth sank into her lower lip, eyelashes fluttering just a bit. “The stories will be over by then,” she whispered.

“I don’t care about the stories.”  
  
“No?”

They’d stopped moving at some point, dancing around subjects and declarations instead of the string music and Killian felt like his lungs were shrinking or maybe his heart was just expanding and he could actually feel the words sitting in the back of his throat, just begging to be shouted or professed until Emma knew how much she meant and he wasn’t there for the angle, he was there for _her_ and this and them.

The rest of it be damned.

“So,” Emma started, squeezing his hand lightly. “This is...you’d want to...stay?”  
  
Killian nodded, not entirely sure how his neck was actually supporting his head when it felt like he was sinking into the floor. “I’d like that,” he said, and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t the _I’d love that and it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks_ that it probably could have been, but Emma hadn’t let go of his hand and that felt like a victory.

“Yeah, me too.”  
  
“I was here for the stories, Swan. That’s what got me here, but I’m not here for the stories so much anymore.”   
  
“That was kind of a convoluted sentence.   
  
“I had a lot of rum.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, exhaling and letting her forehead drop against him. He kissed the top of her head before he considered any of the rules. “Yeah that’s true,” she mumbled. “I think I got the jist of it though.”   
  
“You,” he said. “I’m here for you.”   
  
She didn’t respond immediately and for several terrifying seconds, Killian was fairly sure he’d overstepped some line and they’d be back in front of Bethesda fountain and he wasn’t sure he could actually cope with _a one-time thing 2,0_. He’d probably drink his way through the entire open bar.

“Good,” Emma muttered, and he’d never heard a better word in his entire life.

He bent his knees slightly, wrapping both his arms around and tugging her up towards him and maybe her laugh was better than _good_ and the words were right there, sitting on tip of his tongue, but someone else started talking and Killian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Mr. Jones,” Cora said. There was no judgement in her voice and, somehow, that was even worse and he probably just reeked of rum and pheromones at this point, but Cora didn’t move her lips or her eyebrows or do anything except stare straight at him. “I wasn’t aware you brought a date.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware I had to update you on that, Cora,” he countered.

“Interesting.”  
  
Killian hummed, looking for exits or maybe another shot, and Emma’s fingers were still wrapped up in his. Cora narrowed her eyes at her, like she was examining her or trying to read her mind and it sent a chill down his spine.

The worst idea in the entire history of ideas.

“You look very familiar,” Cora said, but it sounded like an accusation. “Have we run photos of you on our site?”

Emma made a face – a mix between confusion and frustration that Killian felt every time someone even mentioned Cora’s name. “Yeah,” she said. “Several times.”  
  
“Oh, you’re the video game girl, aren’t you?” Emma nodded, opening her mouth to continue the conversation like a normal human being, but Cora wasn’t a normal human being and she didn’t give her a chance. “What an interesting date choice, Mr. Jones. Have you given any thought to that other angle we talked about?”   
  
“No,” Killian bit out immediately, keeping his eyes focused on Cora so he couldn’t see the way Emma stared at him.

“No?” Cora _tsked_ , shaking her head and crossing her arms lightly over the beaded dress that probably cost as much as his yearly rent. “Hm, that’s interesting. Considering your hits issue.”   
  
Killian wished his various body parts would stop reacting to bad news by just dropping into the floor. It was almost painful. “What?” he breathed, and that wasn’t right. The Ruby story had done ok. Ariel told him.

“Oh yes. You barely crested three hundred and the interest is dying down.”  
  
“Cora, do you know how numbers work? Barely is more than three hundred. That’s, literally, the most basic math.”

She glared at him, snapping her head to make sure he sustained the full force of the expression, but Killian dug his heels into the tiled floor. Emma squeezed his hand.

“Of course,” Cora agreed, sounding just a bit reptilian when she let the words just sort of _eek_ out of her. “But isn’t it interesting that quite a number of those hits were coming from the same IP’s? Our people claimed some restaurant in Midtown accounted for nearly a tenth of the total.”

“Granny?” Emma laughed, and Cora looked a bit stunned that she’d even dared to participate in the conversation. “That’s Ruby’s grandmother. Did another tenth come from Electchester? Because everyone in that building probably read the story twenty-seven times each.”  
  
Cora blinked and Killian felt something close to pride surge through every single one of his veins. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Mr. Jones,” she said, an undercurrent of anger that seemed decidedly out of place in a holiday party.

He didn’t feel quite as drunk anymore.

“You asked for hits, Cora,” Killian said quickly. Emma’s grip on his hand went slack. “I am giving you hits and revenue and consistent stories. That was the deal. It doesn’t matter where they’re coming from. Who knows, maybe that entire building in Queens is now dedicated _Daily Caller_ readers. Seems awfully presumptuous to think otherwise, don’t you think?”   
  
“I’m not here to run a site so long lost family members can read up on their kids like they’re in third grade and just got a participation trophy,” Cora seethed. “This is a business, Mr. Jones. A crumbling one. And my daughter has taken pity on you. I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”   
  
She nodded once, like she’d just issued some kind of journalism decree, practically sweeping away and they’d drawn a bit of an audience – Robin and Regina and Will all staring cautiously at him like they were waiting for the patented Killian Jones breakdown.

He looked at Emma instead.

“What was she talking about?” she asked quietly and every single one of his organs stopped functioning. “What was that deal?”  
  
“It’s nothing, Swan. That’s just Cora being Cora.”   
  
“No, no, don’t do that. You’re honestly the worst liar in the world, you know that? Come on, the truth, what was she talking about?”   
  
Killian took a deep breath, the air somehow burning when he pulled it into his lungs and it would have been cool if these signs would all just stop. “Gina got me here,” he said. “She got me to come back to New York and agree to the beat, but the only way she did that was by promising Cora that the story would be a success and if it wasn’t then she was going to lose a considerable amount of control of her site.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Cora was going to bring in new people. Probably get rid of Robin and Gina would lose almost all of her control. And they’d agreed to that in order to get me back home.”   
  
“How do you fit into that though?”   
  
“I found out,” Killian sighed, running his fingers through his hair when Emma tugged her hand back to her side. “Right after the first story went live. And I couldn't let them do that. Not for me. So I went and talked to Cora and made my own deal that would get Gina off the line and make sure Locksley and Scarlet didn’t lose their job if I fucked up again.”   
  
Emma backed up, eyebrows pulled together and she was breathing out of her mouth. “What did you do?”

“I guaranteed two-hundred thousand hits a story. On every story. We hit every time. But the numbers had been going down and we were just _barely_ hitting and then you guys started posting and that whole social media thing and that’s, well, you saved that story, Swan.”   
  
She huffed, gaping at him like he was speaking Ancient Greek. He took a step towards her, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, cautious and hopeful all that the same time. “But,” Killian continued, “then on Thanksgiving Gina mentioned that the board was looking to build on the success and wanted an extra hundred for each story.”   
  
“Wait, Thanksgiving? When our live stuff got shut down?” Killian nodded. “Oh, well, shit. That’s...do you think that was Gold?”   
  
“I’ve got some very strong suspicions,” he admitted.

“Oh my God.” Emma took another deep breath, pulling her free hand up almost unconsciously to rest on his chest and her thumb toyed with the edge of his lapel. “Alright, alright, so...then the Ruby feature did well, right? Hit and everything? Did you plan it that way? Pick Ruby because we didn’t have the social media angle?”  
  
“Yeah, it did. A told me we were close to three-hundred a couple days ago.”   
  
Emma hummed thoughtfully, the small crowd still staring at them from just in front of the bar and Will had demanded another bottle of something. “And what happens if you don’t hit?”   
  
He almost wasn’t mad or disappointed or whatever emotion was sitting in the pit of his stomach. He nearly told her he loved her again, if only because she’d figured it out and still looked at him like she wanted to be there.

“I’d walk,” Killian said, every single letter managing to hurt as soon as they were out of his mouth. “I’d leave _The Caller_ and Cora could probably laugh about it for the rest of her life and I’d...do something else.”   
  
The only sound in the room was the stupid string section and Emma’s quiet breathing and Killian tried to move, tried to will his feet to take another step towards her, but he was frozen solid in the middle of some mock dance floor and he still hadn’t told her he loved her.   
  
“You’d leave?” Emma asked. Her voice didn’t waver at all. “Just like that?”   
  
“No, no, no,” Killian shook his head. “Not...not anymore. Swan, I couldn’t do that.”   
  
“I just don’t understand. This whole time we were standing on some kind of journalism ledge? Were you ever going to mention that? What happened if it didn’t hit? You’d just disappear and we’d lose the promo?”   
  
“No! No, of course not. We’d...figure something out.”   
  
“Sounds like a fantastic plan.”   
  
“Emma, nothing is going to happen,” he said, voice picking up before he could stop himself and the audience shifted slightly, likely wondering if they should come play defense. Killian waved his hand over his shoulder. “We’re hitting the mark. I’m contracted with _The Caller_ through the year. They can’t do anything to me.”   
  
“Unless you don’t hit. Unless Gold shuts down our stream again or keeps up’ing the the marker and Neal keeps trashing our team on the internet.”   
  
“None of those things are going to make a difference, love. He can do whatever he wants. It’s not going to change the fact that this is a good story. You are a good story.”   
  
“Always about the story,” she mumbled, and that did it. He took a step forward, tucking his thumb under her chin and she didn’t blink when she looked at him.   
  
“No,” Killian said. “It’s not anymore.”

Her shoulders sagged. “What was the other angle? The one Cora was talking about.”  
  
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.   
  
He didn’t feel his phone vibrate in his pocket and Emma didn’t hear hers ring, her bag still slung on the back of a chair in front of the bar, but they both heard the heels sprinting towards them from either side of the room. Killian turned to find a frantic looking Anna with her phone pressed against her ear, Ariel running towards Emma with her own phone clutched slightly in her hand and what looked like tear tracks on her cheeks.

“A,” Killian said sharply, but she shook her head. Emma gripped his jacket tighter, eyes wide when Anna moved around them to push her phone out in front of her.

Emma took it cautiously, mumbling _hello_ when she pulled it to her ear. It took, exactly, four seconds for knees to buckle and Killian wrapped his arm around her waist out of instinct, somehow catching the phone when Emma dropped it.

“Yeah, yeah, Ruby I found ‘em,” Ariel said, sniffling slightly when she caught Killian’s eye. The crowd from the bar had finally made their way onto the dancefloor.

Someone was still shouting on the phone in his hand. “Hello?” he asked, and Elsa breathed heavily into the speaker.

“You have to get here,” she said immediately. “Now.”  
  
“What? Where?”   
  
“New York Presbyterian. Emergency room.”   
  
Emma’s breath hitched against him and he tightened his arm, mind racing and Ariel crying and Anna was talking to Regina about getting a car out front. “Elsa, what is going on?” Killian demanded.

“David’s been shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peeks out from behind my laptop. Still with me? Everyone good? So, uh, AngstFest2k17 was never realllllly about the relationship angst. I'm also loving some of your guys' theories and thrilled that you're theorizing, but, there's still some things you're not quiiiiite right on. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and clicking and very likely yelling at me. Come do that on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com)


	22. Chapter 22

It sounded like bugs.

Or maybe bees.

It was more like buzzing than anything else, a hum that seemed to block everything else, including Elsa’s vaguely frantic voice and the sounds of a hospital in the background and Anna looked like she’d just run a marathon. Not that Emma could actually hear her breathing. She was too busy being attacked by metaphorical bees.

And she couldn’t really breathe either.

She wasn’t entirely certain she was still standing. She tried to take a deep breath, huffing when she came up decidedly short and there was a small crowd forming around them. _Them_. There was a them still, in the middle of the dance floor in the middle of the Mills Media annual holiday party and Killian hadn’t moved an inch.

His arm was still wrapped tightly around her and she could see his lips moving, phone pressed up against his ear with his shoulder so he could try and run his fingers over Emma’s arm.

She didn’t flinch.

She barely even felt it.

And if it sounded like bugs or bees before and if her legs were jello or some other kind of slightly shaky dessert-type thing that absolutely was not on the menu at the Mills Media annual holiday party, then it felt like a wave crashing over her when her mind finally caught up with with Elsa said.

_David’s been hurt. He’s been shot. He’s going into surgery now_.

“We need to leave,” Emma muttered, voice scratchy and maybe filled with salt water and she was absolutely drowning.

It wasn’t a wave. It was a tsunami. And none of these goddamn journalists were providing her with any answers.

“We need to go now,” she continued. Killian glanced down at her, Elsa’s voice still going a mile a minute on the phone and Emma couldn’t make out a single word, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t care about the words. She just cared about getting the hell out of that absurdly fancy building and making sure her brother was ok.

He had to be ok.

The bees were back.

And it was incredibly difficult to stay upright.

“Now,” Emma shouted, drawing a handful of curious looks from the room and her head was spinning, barely staying above the waves and the natural disasters and Killian was staring at her like he was slightly nervous she was just going to explode in front of him.

She tried to move away from his arm and his hand and he only held on tighter and Emma refused to consider any of the implications of _that_ or how he wanted to stay in New York for her, maybe, because he hadn’t actually _said_ that, but he hadn’t really _not_ said that and her mind had tripped over itself again trying to wrap its way around shootings and hit counts and that _other angle_ that, Emma was fairly certain, had to do with her.

This was impossible.

Killian mumbled something into the phone, clicking his tongue and Anna tugged it away from his ear, stuffing it back into her bag and muttering towards Will. He ran the opposite direction. And Killian didn’t let go of Emma.

She tried to focus on that instead of the bees. The fake bees. She’d lost her mind.

“I need a car,” Emma snapped, bouncing between emotions like the tide was pulling her there and she hoped it wasn’t still snowing outside. She moved again, nearly tripping over her own heels when she stepped on Killian’s shoe and her dress was far too long and far too... _everything_ to make some kind of immediate exit.

Killian was talking again. Not to her. He sounded like he was yelling. Not at her.

Oh, they were orders.

Or directions.

He was shouting directions.

“Yeah, now,” he said, voice sharp and practically cutting its way through the buzzing. Emma needed to find her phone. “No, I don’t care...call someone. You’re the editor of a major international website, you don’t have some car company on speed dial?”

Regina glared at him, but didn’t actually argue, just held her hand out and Robin dropped another phone into her palm. “You’re fairly close,” she said. “It shouldn’t take long to get over there.”  
  
Emma could actually feel some of the tension leave Killian – washed away with those waves and that tide and she’d had way too much to drink. “Where’s Scarlet?” he demanded, head snapping back and forth like Will would just appear in front of him.

He did.

And Emma’s laugh was manic at best and absolutely _insane_ at worst and her lungs were burning from a distinct lack of use in the last five minutes. Killian’s arm tightened, tugging her against his side and she was fairly sure she felt him kiss the top of her hair, but maybe that was wishful thinking and Ariel was talking to her.

“Emma,” she said softly, tilting her head slightly as Killian barked out more orders and gave Regina hospital addresses. Ariel smiled when she was met with slightly stunned silence and the band was still playing.

That felt like a big deal.

Emma wasn’t sure why, but it did and she didn’t realize she was gripping the front of Killian’s jacket like some kind of black-tie life vest until Ariel started tugging her fingers away, that same, encouraging smile on her face.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Ariel continued, brushing her thumb across Emma’s cheek. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. Maybe she’d just started. The music seemed to get louder. “We just need to get your coat on and then you guys can get out of here.”  
  
Emma must have nodded because Ariel’s smile widened, lifting her hand up over her shoulder expectantly. Will took a cautious step forward, holding Emma’s coat out in front of him and everyone seemed to be walking on ice or eggshells or something that made sense and would get the buzzing in the back of her mind to shut the hell up.

Killian didn’t move.

“Killian,” Ariel said, and he nearly jumped at the sound of his own name. Emma laughed again, the sound entirely out of place. She was still crying. “You’ve got to move so Emma doesn’t freeze to death.”

Emma’s breath hitched and she wished her body would stop doing whatever it was it was doing – going into shock, her mind supplied helpfully. Her right knee buckled, shoulders sagging when she exhaled and that didn’t make any sense at all because she hadn’t been holding her breath, had been a bit desperate for oxygen if she were being honest, but nothing that had happened in the last ten minutes made sense at all.

“Jesus, A,” Will muttered, and Killian widened his eyes meaningfully. Regina suddenly seemed far more preoccupied with the ceiling.

“Oh, shit, shit,” Ariel said quickly, waving her hands through the air in apology. Emma tried to open her mouth, to promise it was _fine_ , but that absolutely would have been a lie and it was the opposite of everything fine ever wanted to be and she wished Killian would move again. “That’s not even remotely what I meant,” Ariel continued and Emma’s neck had given up on doing its job completely, head falling against Killian’s shoulder.

He kissed her.

She was positive that time.

Anna was on the phone again, pacing in a tiny semicircle while trying to get her own jacket on and Emma could hear Ruby shouting on the other line.

Killian still hadn’t actually said anything to Emma and the one part of her mind that was still cognizant and coherent wondered why exactly that was, but most of her mind was focused on getting her jacket on.

“It’s here,” Regina announced suddenly like those words made sense, but Killian nodded once. He hadn’t put his jacket on. “Are you coming?” he asked, glancing at Anna and Will and they both nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Anna stammered. She chewed lightly on her lip, phone still clutched tightly in her hand, but now she was texting and it sounded like the thing was going to vibrate out of her grip.

“I’ll go with them,” Ariel said, tugging on her own coat and squeezing Emma’s forearm lightly. “Ruby’s on some kind of warpath for information, but, you know, if I can get into the wifi….”  
  
“Oh my God, A, don’t break into the hospital,” Robin groaned, but it sounded a bit like pleading and that same cognizant part of Emma’s brain remembered where Ariel had spent most of her night. And who had been talking to her that whole time.

“Don’t you have a date?” Will asked.

“Yeah, at one point, but I told him to leave when Cora started trying to figure out what we were doing on the back end of the site and…”  
  
Emma's mouth had gone dry – breathing heavily and just a bit erratically and she could feel Killian’s worried gaze on the side of her head. They needed to get out of that absurdly fancy building.

Like, at least, five minutes before.

“A, just promise me you’re not going to break into hospital wifi after you’ve just come from a site-sponsored event?” Robin asked.

She rolled her eyes, phone already in her hand and fingers flying across the screen and she didn’t actually look at anyone when she answered. “I’m not actually on the clock. So whatever I do on whatever wifi network I’m trying to get information out of isn’t, technically, your problem.”  
  
“We pay you.”   
  
“I mean, not right now.”   
  
“Are you not salaried?”   
  
“Well, yeah,” Ariel shrugged. “But that’s not my point. My point is that I’m not really working for you currently. And, trust me, David would want me to break into the hospital to make sure that nothing else is going on.”   
  
The buzzing in Emma’s ears stopped as suddenly as it arrived transitioning, suddenly, into something that felt decidedly like fury.

It almost felt warm.

Ariel seemed to realize what she’d said immediately, eyes wide with her own disbelief and both Will and Anna groaned. Regina mumbled _oh my God_ under her breath. “What is going on?” Emma asked sharply, turning her head towards Killian whose eyes were boring a hole into the ground.

He still hadn’t put his coat on.

And the band was _still_ playing.

“Come on, love,” Killian said, pulling his gaze away from his shoes and wrapping his arm tightly around her shoulder. “There’s a car outside.”

Emma shook her head, sinking her heels into the ground – as much as she could sink her heels into a semi-permanent dance floor – and Killian ran his free hand through his hair, tugging on the bottom until he actually winced.

He sighed or maybe she sighed or maybe that was just Regina and Emma could still feel the anger and the _terror_ shooting through her veins, irrational and confused and just a bit desperate and it had all been too good.

Of course it had to end.

Of course.

She should have told him she loved him. At least twenty-six times.

“It’s going to be fine, love,” Killian muttered, but he didn’t sound completely confident and he’d been on the phone far longer than Emma had. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
“Ok,” she whispered, and he nearly smiled at that, pressing a kiss against her forehead and the fury evolved again, settling into something that felt a bit more like concern and just a bit like hope and that pessimism that always sat in the pit of her stomach and right next to her heart seemed to ebb just a bit.

Maybe...just _maybe_.

“It’s going to be fine,” Killian said again, like repeating it would make it real and Emma didn’t argue that either. He glanced at Will and Anna, matching nervous expressions on their faces and a phone in Anna’s hand that was, probably, going to ring until the end of time. “We’ll meet you there?”  
  
“Yeah, Hook,” Will nodded. “Go.”   
  
Killian didn’t wait another moment, letting his left hand fall on Emma’s back and directing her through the crowd and she was dimly aware of the stares and the return of the buzzing and she could only imagine what her face looked like, eyes likely on the wrong side of puffy and the ends of her hair twisted in between her fingers.

Cora was talking to someone else when they walked back towards the door, an impassive expression on her face, but there was a glint in her eye that sent a shockwave of _something_ down Emma’s spine and this had been a bad idea.

The driver already knew where to go and Emma would probably have to thank Regina for that at some point, or maybe she could just thank Killian, but she’d lost the ability to speak again and it was still snowing.

It was almost ironic – if she could remember the actual definition of the word ironic, she wasn’t certain she wasn’t just thinking of it in some kind of Alanis Morissette type of way – but everything in that entire, stupid city almost looked still, cold and crisp and there were lights in every tree they drove by.

It was still loud though. Too loud. Louder than it was uptown and in Killian’s apartment and the driver honked his horn when someone cut in front of them on a street she didn’t actually know the name of.

The distinct lack of balance was making Emma’s head hurt, the pull between the two emotions, somehow, splitting her right down the middle.

David had to be ok.

“He will be, Swan,” Killian said, and she hadn’t realized she said any of that out loud. Maybe she’d just been talking to herself the entire car ride. “You haven’t,” he added, the ends of his lips quirking up and thumb brushing just underneath her eye when Emma started crying again.

Or maybe she’d never actually stopped.

“Everything you’re thinking right on your face, love,” Killian laughed softly. “It’s…”  
  
“If you say it’s going to be fine again, I will actually punch you,” Emma hissed, and she hadn’t meant for her voice to turn quite _that_ aggressive, Killian’s eyes widening before he could completely school her features.

The apology was on the tip of her tongue, the explanation that she should have given him, detailing how she could almost feel the emotions tugging on her limbs like they were all, collectively, trying to pull her under the metaphorical water until she started breathing that in and the buzzing was back.

She didn’t say any of that.

And Killian’s shoulders sagged slightly, any hint of a smile falling off his face.

“Right, right,” he mumbled, fingers back in his hair and chest moving when he took a deep breath. Emma was a little jealous of his ability to do that. “I’m...I’m sorry, Emma.”  
  
She blinked once, rolling her shoulders and she’d never actually checked her phone. Ruby had probably cursed her to several different underworlds. “Wait, what?”   
  
“We shouldn’t have gone to this thing. I didn’t think Cora was going to be there and I thought...well, I didn’t think much at all, I guess.”   
  
“I could have said no.”   
  
Killian hummed, but it didn’t sound like an agreement, more like he was placating her and Emma’s whiplash through emotions was starting to get just a bit exhausting. “It was…”   
  
“You’ve got to finish your sentences.”   
  
“Selfish,” he said sharply, sounding like he was trying to make sure he didn’t actually shout the word in the backseat of that cab. Or town car. Or maybe it was just Regina’s driver. Oh God, it was probably just Regina’s driver.

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Emma admitted. Killian’s shoulders, somehow, managed to drop even more and she twisted quickly, knee hitting up against his when her hands fell on top of his. “But I bought a dress.”  
  
He didn’t really laugh, but it wasn’t quite a scoff either and Emma’s stomach churned when she saw the look on his face. “Swan, I…”   
  
“We’re here,” the driver announced, and Emma tried to figure out where exactly _here_ was. She thought it would take longer to get to the hospital. Her stomach was in her throat.

“New York Presbyterian,” Killian said softly, and he didn’t pay the driver like he would have if this was actually a cab. It was absolutely Regina’s driver. “Emergency room. Or, ICU, rather.” He glanced back at Emma and she was almost surprised she’d run out of tears to cry, but she had no idea where she was and she’d forgotten the definition of irony.

“Intensive care seems like the opposite of fine,” Emma pointed out. Another car honked behind them. She jumped again, squeezing her eyes closed and she’d bit her tongue at some point, blood filling the back of her mouth.

Killian moved his hand over her shoulder, brushing over the top of her arm and back down towards her hand and she twisted her wrist out of instinct, letting him lace his fingers through hers. He mumbled something to the driver, more directions and a plan and if she felt even remotely like herself, Emma probably would have been impressed by all of it.

“Let’s go get some answers, huh?” Killian asked, and Emma nodded slowly, following him when he swung open the door.

The hospital was, somehow, even louder than the street had been – machines beeping and people talking and yelling and pacing and Emma couldn’t take it in quickly enough, a sensory overload that had her frozen, once again, on a different floor.

“Fuck,” she breathed, several internal organs twisting painfully and it felt like all the blood rushed from her head, everything going a bit blurry. Someone shouted at them to _get out of the way_ and there were doctors and nurses running and more shouting and Emma looked at Killian, eyes wide and heart beating far too quickly.

At least she was in a hospital.

“Ok,” Emma said, doing her best to psych herself up and if she kept nodding she was going to do permanent damage to her neck. It was probably better than the heart attack she was fairly certain she was sustaining. “So, let’s avoid getting run over by medical personnel, find some kind of waiting room and maybe M’s? Oh shit, Mary Margaret. I didn’t...I didn’t even think about Mary Margaret. Did Elsa say where Mary Margaret was?”  
  
Killian shook his head. “No, just that we needed to get to the hospital. And we are now. Insert some other word than fine here.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Emma muttered, but her pulse fell into an almost steady rhythm when Killian's thumb trailed across her jaw and just underneath her lip and she’d bitten that as well. “We have to find Mary Margaret.”  
  
“We can do that.”   
  
He didn’t let go of her hand when they moved towards the desk at the other end of the hall, an exhausted looking woman behind the bit of maybe-plastic with scrubs that had ducks all over them. “Can I help you?” she asked, not looking up for the chart in front of her.

“I’m looking for Detective David Nolan?” Emma asked, not sure why it was a question. She’d probably blame the buzzing.

The woman looked up, eyebrows pulled low as she took stock of Emma and Killian – red dress and tuxedo and mascara streaks on Emma’s cheeks. “Family?”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Are you family? Immediate. I’m afraid I can’t give you specifics on the Detective’s surgery if you aren’t immediate family.”

Emma was going to do permanent damage to her lungs and, likely, several other major organs because she kept breathing out all the oxygen in her body and she wasn’t sure who to look at, twisting her neck between the slightly nervous looking woman in front of her and the boyfriend next to her and that was the first time she’d referred to Killian as that.

Her brain cells were clearly suffering from a distinct lack of oxygen.

“I’m sorry, I really need to confirm your status,” the woman continued, and Emma pressed her knuckles roughly against her forehead like that would somehow help everything make sense.

“Surgery?” she asked instead, yelling the word loudly enough that she drew the attention of, at least, three orderlies walking by.

“Swan…” Killian started, but Emma shook her head again and waved her hand and one of the orderlies moved towards them like she needed to be sedated.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. That’s...Detective David Nolan, that’s my brother. Kind of. I just...he’s in surgery already?”  
  
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Kind of?”   
  
“Yes,” Emma answered impatiently. “I...what do you need to know to prove that he’s my brother? Because he’s allergic to pollen and that’s part of the reason he moved to New York in the first place and he’s really bad at making my coffee the right way and he snores when he sleeps on his back and his wedding anniversary is December 19 and I wasn’t the best man, but he wanted me to be and that was only because Mary Margaret won the rock, paper, scissors contest and I got my own dance….you know, like a mother of the groom kind of thing.

There was one of those too...Ruth would have rioted if she didn’t get to dance with David, oh shit, did anyone call Ruth? Someone needs to call Ruth like, an hour ago.” She took a deep breath, blinking quickly and everything hurt when she started talking again. “He’s...his middle name is Robert for his father. He, um, his favorite movie is Remember the Titans because he always wanted to play football, but he’s just really not athletic and we didn’t want him to get hurt and…”  
  
Emma ran out of oxygen. She was bordering dangerously close to sobbing and maybe she should get sedated in the lobby of New York Presbyterian because she’d started rambling and the woman in front of her looked a little stunned.   
  
Killian moved, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and he didn’t flinch when her head crashed against his chest, her whole body shaking with the force of her sobs.

“He wasn’t supposed to get hurt,” Emma mumbled, and she could feel Killian’s cheek move against the top of her head when he nodded.

“Em!”

She snapped up, nearly crashing her head into Killian’s chin to find Ruby sprinting towards them, eyes red and the ends of her nails chipped, like she’d spent the better part of the night biting them.

“God,” Ruby continued, skidding to a stop next to them and throwing her hand against Killian’s shoulder to stop herself from falling. “Why do you even have a phone if you’re not going to answer it? I tried to call you, like, at least fifty-two times. Ariel answered on the second ring.”  
  
“You’re doing this now?” Emma asked. “You’re really going to _I told you so_ me right now?”   
  
Ruby sighed, deflating at the acid in Emma’s voice and she shook her head. “I’m freaking out.”   
  
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club or whatever.”   
  
“You guys look really nice.”   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“Mary Margaret’s been showing your picture to anyone who walks by the waiting room. I think she’s using it as a coping device.”

Emma’s laugh felt distinctly out of place and it didn’t really do much to dissolve the ball of worry that had settled like a weight in the very center of her, but Killian was still next to her and she’d felt that sense of optimism once, maybe she could just linger there for a little while longer.

“What happened?” Emma asked, dragging her knuckles over her cheeks. “He’s in surgery?”

Ruby nodded, blinking back her own tears, and it was the first time, in at least a six years, she wasn’t actually wearing heels. She was wearing a Wail t-shirt. “Um, well, from what M’s has been able to get out of someone with a stethoscope around their neck, he’s out of immediate danger. The bullets didn’t hit any major organs or anything like that, but they’re kind of...in there? So that’s why they rushed him into surgery. Wanted to make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding too, I think.”  
  
“That’s it?”   
  
Another nod and Emma tried not to let her frustration show on her face, but Killian shifted slightly behind her, a knot in between his eyebrows that probably wouldn’t ever go away. “What?” Ruby asked.

“Bullets,” he said pointedly, and Emma’s eyes widened, more air rushing out of her and rustling the end of Ruby’s hair. “Plural?”  
  
“Fuck,” Emma mumbled again. “I…” She twisted back towards the woman behind the desk, still looking like she couldn’t quite believe what was going on in front of her. “Can we go into the waiting room at least?”   
  
She smiled encouragingly, but Emma didn’t wait more than half a second for a response, one hand tied up in Killian’s and Ruby’s fingers wrapped around her other wrist as she tugged both of them down the hallway.

Mary Margaret was pacing when they turned another corner, fingers tapping anxiously on the back of her neck while Elsa was sitting cross-legged in one of the plastic chairs and the other car had, somehow, gotten there faster than them, Ariel’s nose nearly pressed against her phone screen.

“Has she sat down once?” Emma asked, eyes darting towards Ruby.

“No.”

Emma squeezed Killian’s hand once. “Mary Margaret?”

Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum when she spun around and she wasn’t crying. She didn’t look like she had been crying. Emma wasn’t sure what do with that.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret said, like Emma had just walked into the apartment after a day of video games and teaching and she actually smiled at her. “I’m sorry you had to leave. Hey, Killian.”

“M’s are you serious?” Emma balked, but she just smiled softly in response and kept breathing evenly and they’d walked into a hospital that existed in the Twilight Zone. “What is going on right now?”  
  
“We think it might be shock,” Ruby muttered, nodding towards Ariel and her phone and quick-moving thumbs. “A’s trying to figure out symptoms and how to treat it without letting the patient know what’s going on. Belle went to go find coffee or something. We figure if we get some caffeine in her it might balance out the nerves or something.”   
  
“I don’t know enough about science to dispute that plan.”   
  
“I can hear you, you know,” Mary Margaret said evenly, pacing again and nodding towards a nurse who muttered _oh, that’s them_ when she noticed Emma and Killian. “And everything is going to be fine. It’s fine.”

“She sounds like you,” Emma mumbled, glancing towards Killian and she’d fallen back into frustration quickly and easily. It was absolutely because of Mary Margaret’s never-ending positivity.

God, Emma was the worst person alive.

Ariel gasped or whistled or made some kind of noise that drew the attention of everyone in the entire waiting room, Belle and Anna walking towards them with several cups of something Emma hoped was caffeinated in their hands. Will was only a few steps behind them, arms laden down with vending machine options.

“A,” Killian snapped, and it sounded like another command. “What are you actually looking up?”  
  
Ariel’s eyes flashed towards him – darker than usual and there was a warning there, a silent request to _not be a goddamn journalist for two seconds_ and Emma kind of wished he’d listened because she wasn’t ready to deal with what came next.

“Mary Margaret did you know?” Ariel asked, twisting over the back of the chair and ignoring Killian completely.

Emma tried to remember to breathe, but then Mary Margaret nodded and that ball of _whatever_ in the middle of her threatened to crush her right there in the waiting room. “I mean, kind of,” Mary Margaret explained. “Not the specifics. I didn’t know...he wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”

Ruby moved before Mary Margaret’s knees could buckle completely, letting her fall against her shoulder. Killian kept staring at Ariel.

“What do you know?” he asked sharply. “And how did you get here so quickly?”  
  
“Regina needs a better driver, that guy totally went the wrong way,” Ariel said. “He should have gone down Broadway.”

“I knew that guy was Regina’s driver,” Emma mumbled, and Killian almost looked like he wanted to kiss her again, but she took a step away and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She ignored the look on his face. “What do you break into, Ariel?”  
  
She opened her mouth to answer, but Mary Margaret was suddenly in front of Emma, tugging her arms apart and staring at her like they were teenagers. Or like Emma had just gotten out of jail. “They were raiding Wessleton’s,” she explained. Ruby and Belle both gasped, Elsa didn’t look surprised. Emma wished she could breathe. “It was supposed to be easy. I, honestly, wasn’t even worried. David said they’d finally gotten a warrant, got around the sleazy lawyer completely, and they could connect the money coming from Wessleton back to the Pan stream and they might be able to get him on laundering or something. He kept saying how routine it was going to be.”   
  
“How long have you known that?”

Mary Margaret grimaced, one eye squeezed shut and that metaphorical ball rolled over her again, just to make sure it broke every single one of her bones. “About a week ago.”  
  
“A week?” Emma shouted. Someone walking by actually _shushed_ her. She took a deep breath, pulling her lips back behind her teeth and tried to temper that fury that had returned in full force. “What happened, Ariel?”   
  
“Wait, what, me?” Ariel sputtered, and Killian groaned loudly when she didn’t answer quickly enough. “God, relax,” she muttered. “And, uh, I found the blotter? Or whatever the private version of the blotter is? I don’t know the technical terms for that.”   
  
“I promise it absolutely does not matter,” Emma said.

Ariel chuckled lightly, pushing out of the chair and walking towards Emma with her phone stretched out in front of her. “Mary Margaret was right,” she started. “It should have been routine. If it had been a routine laundering case.”  
  
“If?”

“It wasn’t. From what I could find just now, David and some uniforms got there, found some...not-quite-legal activity that’s probably a hell of a lot worse than laundering.”  
  
“Oh my God, A,” Will sighed, hooking his foot around a table Emma hadn’t noticed and dropping his vending machine haul on top. “Straight to the point.”   
  
Ariel bit her lip, shaking back and forth on her feet and twisting the side of her dress in between her fingers. She opened and closed her mouth four times.

“Holy shit,” Killian muttered under his breath. Emma turned towards him, eyebrows lifted and she barely heard him when he answered the question he hadn’t actually asked yet. “They were dealing.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ariel nodded. “Moving product and, I mean, a lot of product and, I guess, it all kind of spiraled from there? A couple other uniforms got hurt too, but, the medical call said Nolan was the only one who sustained multiple injuries. Wesselton’s guys turned on ‘em as soon as they got there.”   
  
In the grand scheme of _things_ Emma had felt in the last hour – hearing _that_ felt the sharpest, like she’d just gripped a live wire with her bare hand or been struck by lightning and it left her mind reeling and any sense of positivity or hope almost visibly evaporated in front of her.  

It was her fault.

This was her fault.

They shouldn’t have played. As soon as she found out Wesselton was shady and Neal was there and Gold _knew_ , he knew about her and what she’d done and Emma nearly fell over when she realized – she was the angle.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, looking anywhere except one of the decidedly confused faces staring at her. Mary Margaret was trying to ask Killian about the event. “M’s, enough, God,” Emma hissed, immediately regretting the outburst and Mary Margaret hardly batted an eyelash.

Of course not.

“Don’t do that,” Mary Margaret cautioned, but Emma’s mind was already working its way across the George Washington Bridge and somewhere in New Jersey and that didn’t really help much, but if she didn’t run, she didn’t know what else to do.

“This is…”  
  
“No, it’s not.”   
  
“Mary Margaret.”   
  
“It is not,” she said, enunciating every single letter in all three words and Emma nodded before she could come up with another argument. “He went into this knowing exactly what he was doing with the information he had. You’re not a psychic, you couldn't have known that it would end up like this.”   
  
Emma shook her head, tongue darting out between her lips and she should stop breathing out of her mouth. At least she was breathing. “How many?” she asked, well aware that Mary Margaret didn’t need more specifics.

“Three.”  
  
“Shit.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“I yelled at the nurse at the other end of the hallway. Just shouted David Nolan facts at her.”   
  
“I’m sure she appreciated that.”   
  
“M’s,” Emma sighed, and the very red dress was, suddenly, very, very tight and she wasn’t sure she cold cope with anymore secrets. “We were getting money from him. That’s how we got to Philadelphia.” She turned towards Elsa, an unreadable expression on her face. “Did you know?”   
  
“That Wesselton was part of some kind of drug shipment thing?” Emma nodded. “No, no, God, no. He...he was always looking for the next big payday, but, like I said, he just helped my parents ship antiques. He could get them good deals on European shipping.”   
  
Emma ran a hand over her face. “When did he start shipping out of New Orleans?”

“I have no idea.”  
  
“Uh, I do,” Ariel muttered, sitting on the edge of a different chair with a bag of chips balanced in between her knees. “Nearly nine years ago. There’s a pretty extensive paper trail for it, the expansion and the government approval and all that. It all looks totally legit on paper.”   
  
“And off paper?” Emma pressed.

Ariel’s eyes flitted back towards Killian and his smiled was strained when he turned towards Emma. “We’ve been looking him up for months now,” he admitted. “He gets to New Orleans nine years ago and, suddenly, the Lost Boys go international. They start bringing in new product and shipping it across the country and Hans the sleazy lawyer starts making those regular trips to Louisiana.”  
  
“And Gold?”   
  
“No sign of him. At least not officially. He’s still in New York and still bringing in money and donating money and everything with him is on the straight and narrow.”   
  
“There’s more though,” Ariel added, and Killian’s eyes actually looked like they sparked when he glared at her. She shrugged, undeterred. “Seven years ago the NYPD ran a huge raid on a warehouse in Brooklyn, seized a bunch of product and found an address on...something that matched up with one of Gold’s apartments.”   
  
“One of them?” Will asked sharply, but Ariel brushed him off.

Emma lowered her eyebrows, closing her eyes and trying to plot out all of this. It was insane. It didn’t make sense. It made far too much sense.

“Did they bring him in?” Emma asked. “Gold, I mean?”  
  
Ariel shook her head. “No. And I can’t figure out why, but, uh, if we kind of timeline all of this…”   
  
Lightning. Again.

“Oh, shit,” Emma muttered, gaping at Killian and the hand he had stuffed in the back of his hair. “Seven years? That’s right when you got to New Orleans, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “But I never found anything about Gold while I was there. He certainly wasn’t running things in person.”   
  
“I think we’ve decided that Gold never actually set foot in New Orleans, right?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Maybe?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “None of this makes any sense, love. But I think we can be fairly confident that Wesselton was involved in the Lost Boys and was...inexplicably trying to pay for your video game career?”   
  
“Why was that a question?”   
  
“Because I honestly don’t know how else to phrase any of this,” he admitted. “I can’t figure out what they’re doing now though.”   
  
“What do you mean?” Emma asked, and she heard Mary Margaret’s breath catch.

He tugged on his hair again, shoulders heaving with the force of his deep breath. “Ok, say Gold is in charge of New Orleans and the Lost Boys. That almost makes sense, but he was never in New Orleans and...someone had to be handling the day to day of all that. There has to be someone else, someone we’re totally missing.”  
  
“You sound like you’re looking for a ghost,” Ruby accused, but Killian shook his head deftly.

“No, this person exists. I know they do. I knew they did when I was in New Orleans, but I could never find him and, well, I’m not a cop. I can’t actually raid anything.”  
  
“But why would Gold want to get into video games?” Elsa asked, shaking her hair off her shoulders when she sat up straighter. “Why shift from drug lord, crime boss to video game sponsor? And if he’s connected to Wesselton, like he’s obviously connected to Wesselton, then why would he let them sponsor us?”   
  
Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head and neither one of them had ever taken their jackets off. “I honestly have no idea,” he sighed. “I can’t figure that last part out.”

Emma rocked back on her heels, arms still hanging awkwardly at her side while Mary Margaret stared at her with something that felt a hell of a lot like pity.

She knew.

Neal was running lines again. And Wesselton was there to make sure they got into the league. They were all being played.

In a goddamn video game tournament.

“I’m going to get some air,” Emma announced, and Mary Margaret actually smiled _again_ , like she’d been fully expecting that escape maneuver. Ruby shook her head, dropping into a chair and swinging her feet onto the edge of the snack table.

“Swan,” Killian started, but she shook her head, crushed by that ball of whatever and drowning in an absolute sea of feeling and want and misplaced hope.

“No, no, no,” she said sharply. “Don’t. Just...you knew about this Wesselton thing?”

He wavered for a moment, lips pressed in a thin, straight line and Emma resisted the urge to smack at his shoulder. Or just dissolve into a puddle of disappointment. "Not about tonight. Or the raid. But I had some suspicions about New Orleans."

“What else is there that you haven’t been telling me?” she continued, ignoring his quick intake of air. “You said you weren’t looking up stuff on me.”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“Yeah, right.”   
  
“Emma! I’m not. That’s not what we’ve been doing here. We’ve been trying to figure out why Gold is sponsoring a video game team. And whatever A has been doing with David, but that’s...none of that has anything to do with what I’ve been writing or us.”   
  
The word seemed to hang in the middle of the waiting room, big and important and there _was_ an us with qualifiers and some kind of deep-rooted emotion that she hadn’t been able to give voice to yet.

She wasn’t sure she could.

Emma didn’t wait for him to say anything else – barely even noticed Killian’s left arm jerk slightly towards her and stalked back down the hallway they’d walked through earlier.

The woman behind the desk was a different woman with different scrubs – balloons instead of ducks – and she smiled brightly at Emma when she walked by, all but sprinting out the door and dropping onto the edge of the curb as soon she brushed the snow off the concrete.

She had no idea how long she sat out there, starting to shiver eventually and Emma wondered how long it would take to contract hypothermia or claim her fingers were frostbitten.

They needed to quit. They needed to leave this tournament and David had to walk away from this investigation and Killian needed to stop digging.

It needed to end.

David had to be ok.

They all had to be ok.

She was going to make sure of it.

Emma pushed herself back off the curb eventually, flinching when the heat seemed to hit her as soon as she walked through the automated doors and the duck scrubs were back. She took a deep breath as she approached the desk, licking her lips nervously and trying to look like an actual, blood relative.

“Could you tell me if Detective Nolan is out of surgery yet?” Emma asked. Her voice shook. God damn it. “Or where he is?”  
  
The woman eyed her, like she was trying to read her mind or check her genes without whatever test did that. And Emma was never sure what did it – the mascara she’d never cleaned off her cheeks or the slightly blue finger tips or how obvious it was that she was trying not to cry. She didn’t really care.

“He’s out,” she confirmed. “Seems to be in good shape.”  
  
Emma let out the breath she’d absolutely been holding and she looked up quickly when she saw Mary Margaret jogging towards her. “I was just going to try and find you,” she said, just a bit out of breath and she’d definitely been crying. “He’s awake. Out of post.”   
  
“Is he ok?”   
  
“He asked if you were out demanding coffee from somewhere so, yeah, I think he’s going to be fine.” Mary Margaret glanced at the woman behind the desk, flashing a smile made of sunshine and rainbows and _belief_ as she wrapped her arm around Emma’s shoulders. “This is my sister-in-law. She’s David’s sister. She’s coming with me.”   
  
And, well, that was that.

David’s room was quiet except for the beeping of the half a dozen machines and there were more wires sticking out of him than Emma could even begin to imagine existed in the entire world of modern medicine and half of her wanted to run again.

Possibly while screaming.

The other half of her looked back at Mary Margaret and the bags under her eyes and she couldn’t leave.

Not anymore.

He was still breathing through a mask, but his eyes were open and one side of his mouth twitched when Emma walked in. She’d almost forgotten she was still wearing a ridiculously red dress and heels that were starting to cut up her toes until David’s eyes bugged slightly and, of course, that was what he was worried about.

“Idiot,” she mumbled, and his lips twitched again, finger tapping against her wrist when she took a step towards the side of the bed. “You’re a stupid, idiot you know that, right?”  
  
David’s eyebrows moved and he probably would have laughed at her if it wouldn't have hurt him. “Yeah, he knows,” Mary Margaret promised, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Trust me, he’s been properly chastised.”   
  
“Good. Because he’s an idiot.”   
  
“I think we’ve established that. And he wants to know how tonight went.”   
  
“He does not,” Emma argued, almost smiling genuinely when David flattened his whole hand against the top of the mattress. “That’s just you.”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged, but she didn’t actually argue and Emma rolled her eyes, crossing her arms lightly and her feet were really starting to hurt. “It was...interesting,” she muttered. “I think we’re dating.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“With nametags.”   
  
“What does that even mean?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Emma groaned, brushing a piece of hair out of her eyes. “Listen, that’s not important. The important thing here is that David is fine. Or fine’ish. And that I am done.”   
  
“Done?” Mary Margaret echoed, glancing at David like she half expected him to join in on the conversation. He narrowed his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “Done. Out. Not doing this anymore. I’ll...I’ll stay in New York for a little while, until David’s back on his feet, but then...we can’t play in this thing if this is how it’s going to work.”  
  
Mary Margaret tilted her head – falling into teacher pose like Emma had tried to blame her misplaced homework on a dog she didn’t own. “What isn’t going to work, exactly?”   
  
“This tournament. Listen. I don’t know what this Gold guy is playing at, but if he’s working with Wesselton and Wesselton is shipping drugs to every corner of the world and David’s getting shot then we can’t keep playing. Not like this. Not when Gold is involved in that too and I think Neal and Jeff are running lines again. I...well, I think that’s why Gold is getting in on sponsorship.”   
  
“How long have you been thinking this?”   
  
“Weeks,” Emma mumbled, digging her toes into the floor and that only served to hurt her feet more. “Since the first round. And Gold showed up. He, uh, said something about the money and having enough to settle.”   
  
David made some kind of strangled noise, trying to talk and sit up and both Mary Margaret and Emma moved quickly, pushing back on his shoulder and muttering a string of curses on their breath that matched up more than they probably should.

“Idiot” Emma hissed. “Sit down.”  
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mary Margaret asked softly, staring at Emma like she’d just been betrayed. Emma shrugged, a flush of embarrassment shooting through her and the floor was suddenly the most interesting part of that conversation. “Oh, Em, no. Come on. That was a long time ago. Did you…”   
  
“Did I what?”   
  
“Tell Killian?”   
  
Emma shook her head before Mary Margaret even finished the question. “No,” she said. “And I”m not going to. He’s...come on, that’s...he’s writing about us, M’s. He’s running player profiles and that is one hell of a story. He’d probably win more awards for that story.”   
  
“You don’t mean that,” Mary Margaret whispered, and she didn’t. She absolutely didn’t. But David looked far too pale and Gold was pulling strings everywhere and Emma had never put much stock in _fate_ , but this was insane and it all made sense.

“We have to pull out,” Emma said. “We can’t do this anymore.”  
  
“You should go back out to that desk and add this to the list of reasons you’re related to David. You’re both being painfully large idiots tonight.”   
  
Emma actually laughed, the sound foreign in between the beeping from the machines and the people in the hallway and David looked at her like he’d never seen her before. “M’s, that was actually almost mean,” Emma said.

“You can’t quit this. You just, well, you have to win.”  
  
“Why? Just to beat Neal? I don’t care about that.”

Mary Margaret shook her head. “No, I don’t care about him either. This is, Em, you came here for this. You came back to us for this and if you walk away now, it’s...you can’t do that.”  
  
There weren’t any other chairs in the room. She didn’t have anything to collapse into. That felt a bit anti-climactic.

“I don’t think we can win,” Emma sighed.

“You don’t know that. And even if you don’t, you can’t walk now. Not when we know that something is going on”  
  
She bobbed on her heels – and that was a mistake too because the pain seemed to actually shoot up her legs and into her back and David was trying to smile at her again. “Are they all still here?”   
  
“No, not all of them.”   
  
“Right, right,” Emma mumbled, certain Ruby would have to be dragged out of that waiting room before she agreed to leave. She glanced back at David, tapping her fingers on the blanket draped haphazardly across his legs. “You’re really ok? Like, I mean, don’t talk because, whatever, medicine, but just blink in code or something.”   
  
David blinked once – an elongated move that nearly had Emma laughing again. “Idiot,” she repeated, not even trying to come up with another insult. “So what, we’re playing undercover now?”   
  
He made another noise, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, and Mary Margaret answered for him. “Kind of,” she translated. “But also, if you guys just ran, Gold would know something was going on, right? And maybe...maybe something else would happen? Or someone else would get hurt.”   
  
Emma heard the words behind the words, the thoughts she’d considered on the curb in the snow and she was fighting a losing battle. She hadn’t even tried to play the game in her mind once that night.

That was probably a sign.

“I’m glad you’re ok, because you totally freaked me out, you know,” she said, appreciating Mary Margaret’s quiet gasp of surprise when she didn’t fight that plan. “We’ll play, but this is...you’re not allowed to get shot again, is that understood?”  
  
David couldn’t laugh, but he did wink and Mary Margaret leaned forward to squeeze Emma’s hand tightly, smiling brightly at her like they’d all decided to save the world and not just play video games. “He said yes, ma’am,” Mary Margaret muttered.

“He better. Get some sleep, Detective. I’m going to go see if I can find some coffee.”  
  
She should probably walk with her head up, but it had been a _night_ in a multi-underlined, possibly bolded kind of way, and Emma’s feet hurt with every step, so she didn’t see Killian in front of her until she nearly collided with his tuxedo jacket.

He smiled at her, just on the edge of hopeful and that _maybe_ was back, banging around on the sides of her skull trying to get Emma to believe in some kind of Mary Margaret type of way. “What are you doing?” Emma asked, and that wasn’t really the question she wanted to ask.

“Trying to caffeinate you,” Killian answered, shrugging slightly to prove he was holding two styrofoam cups of shitty hospital coffee.

“Why?"  
  
“Why?”   
  
“Why...M’s said everyone left. Where’s Ruby?”   
  
“She left.”   
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
“This is a very confusing conversation, Swan. Did you think I’d just leave? Without actually saying anything to you?”   
  
Emma sighed and if they were going to acknowledge vaguely antiquated qualifiers then she should probably act like the qualifiers meant something and he’d found her coffee. “No,” she said after an inexcusably long amount of time. “I...know you wouldn’t. Ruby really left?”   
  
“Not willingly,” Killian smiled. “Something about visiting hours though and family and…”   
  
“How are you here, then?” Emma interrupted.

He pressed his teeth into his lower lip – and that was a completely _different_ type of distraction than the coffee or wherever he’d left his jacket. “The hospital personnel was much easier to lie to than you are, love.”   
  
“Is that a good thing?” Emma asked and he shrugged, holding one of the cups out towards her. “What was the lie, exactly?”   
  
“We’ve been very happily married for the last four months. Just came from my company’s holiday party. Have to stay for your brother.”   
  
“Only one of those things is a lie.”   
  
“That’s the beauty of it,” Killian said. “You’ve got to have some truth in your lie, otherwise everyone will see through it. Sources won’t trust you.”   
  
Emma scoffed, taking a sip of the coffee and nearly dropping it. Killian grinned. “Did you lie to someone about your cinnamon needs too?”   
  
“Nah, it was just sitting there. Although I did get them to keep the cafe open ten minutes longer than they were supposed to.”   
  
“All that excess charm.”   
  
“When it comes to you and your caffeine needs Swan, I’m willing to focus it just a little bit.” He smiled again, that easy, _real l_ ook that Emma had, at some point, started considering _hers_ in some weird, qualified and decidedly possessive way and it left her with butterflies trying to work out of her stomach and up her throat and maybe into her cinnamon flavored coffee.

“Here,” Killian added, tugging a plastic bottle out of his pocket and holding out more cinnamon. The butterflies were everywhere. “Is your brother ok?”

Emma nodded. “All hooked up to machines that I didn’t know existed until now, but, yeah, he is.”  
  
“Good. That’s good. And it’s good you were all here. That can make all the difference.”   
  
The butterflies flew away or maybe just dissolved under the weight of those words and she was the absolute worst because she hadn’t even thought about _that_ , hadn’t considered what Killian must have thought or how she’d just walked out of the waiting room and left there with people that weren’t really his in a moment that, maybe, led back to Gold.

“Shit, I…” Emma muttered, but Killian smiled again, taking a step towards her and letting his hand rest on her hip. She didn’t move.

“It’s alright, love,” he promised. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you more about what A and I were doing. I should have. I just want to make sure you’re ok too.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’m…” She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and the words just seemed to roll out of her, her voice settling into some kind of rhythm that maybe matched up with her pulse or those machine she could still dimly hear.

“I trust you, implicitly, and I know Ariel’s been helping David and I know this is, well, it’s personal for you, but everyone has always left. I’m always waiting for that. To wake up and be myself again and I can’t...everyone’s left and this felt like that again.”  
  
“It would take more than a few gunshots for David to leave you, Swan,” Killian reasoned.

“I know, I know that, but, um, it’s not just about David.” He tilted his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed and his eyes traced over her face quickly. It’d probably be weird if they started making out in the hospital hallway.

Emma tried to swallow down the new pack of butterflies. “Everyone’s gone,” she whispered. “And I can’t lose you too. Not now.”  
  
Killian stared at her for half a beat and something about him seemed to soften in front of her, like he was settling into qualifiers and lies that let him stay with her after visiting hours were over. “That’s not something you have to worry about, love,” he said gruffly. “I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.”

It sounded like a promise and it felt a hell of a lot like love and Emma almost wasn’t totally surprised when he ducked his head and kissed her in the middle of the hospital hallway.

She rocked up against him, free hand pushed into his hair to try and keep him there against her and he did that thing with his tongue again and she tried not to actually groan against him. He probably wouldn’t have minded.

It was a better kind of breathless than it had been earlier that night.

“What happens next,” Emma whispered and she felt Killian’s smile. “Right?”  
  
He nodded, kissing her quickly and peppering her jaw and her cheek and her feet almost didn’t hurt anymore. “What happens next.”   
  
They fell asleep in the waiting room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crime fighting duo! In love! Supporting each other! The bad guys continue to be real bad, things are going to get more dramatic and I really, really appreciate you guys reading this mess of words. 
> 
> As always, I'm very much down to flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com)


	23. Chapter 23

It was Christmas.

A week after David’s surgery and two days before the second round of the League and Killian’s back still had bruises on it from that chair in the waiting room, but he would have been willing to sustain a few more if it meant things were just a bit easier or a bit more normal or any of them felt like they weren't walking on some kind of edge of a video game sword.

They didn’t have swords in Overwatch.

At least he didn’t think so.

God, he should really learn more about the game.

He should probably ask Henry more about the game. He was, after all, sitting next to him, the kid’s legs draped over his and the game on the TV, a brand-new headset over his ears as his fingers flew across the keyboard and he shouted something at an opponent on, likely, the other side of the world.

“Are you winning?” Killian asked, rapping his knuckles over Henry’s shin.

Henry didn’t look at him. Or answer him. He probably couldn’t hear him. Roland, however, could hear him and leap at him and Killian groaned when a knee landed in his stomach. “Kid, you’ve got to learn how to control your limbs,” he mumbled, ruffling Roland’s hair and that only earned him a loud laugh and a fist hitting up against his chest.

“Can I play?” Roland asked, twisting to look at Killian like he was in charge of the television or the video games.

“Is Henry almost done?”  
  
Roland made a seven-year-old noise that wasn’t quite an answer, but still managed to sound impatient and Killian understood the feeling. He wanted to go crosstown and sit in an incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair and maybe make sure Emma got some food that didn’t come from a hospital cafe on Christmas.

She’d texted him that morning –  _Merry Christmas and we’ll be at the hospital all day_ and that’s where she’d been for most of the last week, the team taking turns sitting in waiting rooms and in the slightly more padded chairs in David rooms, making sure Emma and Mary Margaret ate and remembered to stand up and actually changed their clothes.

They were all supposed to be there that afternoon, bringing presents – and Killian made Elsa promise, coffee for Emma – and Ruby had tried to get him to go, but there was _tradition_ and Roland and Henry and it was the first time they hadn’t gone to Vermont for Christmas in as long as he could remember.

There was more to that than any of them were willing to let on.

Killian didn’t ask about it. Coward. Liam would call him a coward. A Christmas coward. Jeez.

“K, when are we leaving?” Roland asked. Killian lowered his eyebrows, glancing down at the kid sprawled across him.

“What are you talking about?”  
  
“Gina said we were leaving. She bought a bunch of desserts and Ariel was on the phone with Uncle Will before and she was asking about…”   
  
“Coffee,” Henry muttered, and Killian’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.

“I thought you couldn’t hear me,” he accused sharply, Henry’s cheeks flushing just a bit. “Are you winning then? Is that why you were ignoring me?”  
  
Henry nodded, thumb smacking at a button when something on the TV died, what sounded like, a particularly horrible death. “I’m totally winning. I’m just trying to finish this game before we leave.”   
  
“Where are you guys going?”   
  
“We,” Robin corrected, coming up behind the couch and leaning around Killian’s shoulder to squeeze Roland’s shoulder.

Killian got elbowed again. “God, Locksley, control your kid,” he groaned, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually glare at Roland when he started climbing up his side, mumbling something that sounded like _presents_ and _are those for us_ and Killian couldn’t actually twist around to look at Robin.

“It’s Christmas, Hook. I make no excuse for seven-year-old excitement on Christmas. And he’s right. C’mon, get up. It’s time to go.”  
  
“What?”

Regina’s heels clicked on the hardwood floor, announcing her arrival ahead of the telltale squeak of Will’s sneakers. Killian huffed when he tried to hitch Roland further up his side so he could turn, but that just ended with Henry’s heel pushing its way into what might have been his gallbladder and he needed to get off that couch if only to keep his body in tact.

“Is Ariel on her way?” Regina asked, ignoring Killian and his injuries completely. He turned towards Will, certain he could get an answer out of him, but he was met with a quick shake of the head and a knowing smile and the buzzer at the front of the apartment echoed off the walls.

“What is going on?” Killian demanded. No one answered him.

Henry blew something else up in the game, _whooping_ in triumph when he threw the controller up and he’d learned that from Emma. “You going to talk to me now?” Killian asked, tugging on Henry’s ankle like that would make a difference.

“Crosstown,” Henry grinned, and the way his eyebrows jumped up his forehead was just a bit too familiar for comfort. God, maybe Killian and Emma really were the parents of this whole group.

“What?”  
  
“Killian, if you’re just going to keep shouting questions, at least get a pen and make it look like you’re doing your job,” Regina said, balancing a box on her hip.

“It’s a national holiday, Gina.”  
  
“Exactly, so shut up.”   
  
“God bless us, everyone.”   
  
She made some kind of noise in the back of her throat – close to a growl or just general exasperation – and Killian finally pushed himself off the couch, Roland hanging onto him like a koala and he was definitely shouting about presents.

“C’mon, Gina, have some pity on him,” Will muttered, holding his hand out to haul Henry onto his feet. “He’s been trying to figure out how to tell Emma he’s head over heels in love with her for, like, a month now and this whole mafia thing has just gotten in the way of everything.”  
  
“There is no mafia here,” Killian argued. Will’s mouth did something absurd when he didn’t contradict the rest of it. Because that might have been totally true. And he was absolutely exhausted by the past trying to exist in the present and they needed to win in two days.

The universe owed them all that.

“A Christmas miracle,” Robin muttered, knocking Will’s shoulder with his own and Killian wondered how long they’d spent talking about this. Probably since August. “We’re going over there. With some real food and if their side can host Thanksgiving then we can do something for Christmas. Right? That’s reasonable.”  
  
Killian blinked, gaping at his friends and Will looked like he was trying not to laugh too loudly. “Wait, what? They?”   
  
“Yeah, you know, Emma’s side of the...whatever this is. Plus, this was Henry’s idea.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Regina groaned. “Oh my God, Killian, pick another word. I know you know one.”  
  
He ignored her, turning towards Henry with something that felt like awe on his face and maybe in his bloodstream and the kid’s face was as red as the stocking he’d dumped on the floor earlier that morning. “This was your idea?”

“Yeah,” Henry mumbled, letting Robin wrap a particularly _paternal_ arm around his shoulders. “I mean...it’s Christmas and Mrs. Nolan is super nice and Emma is super nice and you’re…”   
  
“What?” Killian asked, pressing his lips together when Regina made another noise.

“You really like her, right? It’s kind of obvious you really like her.” Killian nodded slowly, mind racing and heart racing and Roland clinging to him, arms tight around his neck like he was worried he’d just disappear if he let go. “So,” Henry continued, shrugging slightly and ducking his eyes towards his slippered-feet. “I just figured...if they were all going to be in the hospital and we were going to be home, then we could help or something. And they say hospital food is really bad.”  
  
“They?”   
  
“Yeah, you know, those people that talk and…” Henry bit his lip when he realized he was still talking and the entire living room seemed frozen, waiting for the rest of it. “And I just figured if you and Emma were...together, then, well, maybe you’d stay in the city for awhile.”   
  
Killian exhaled and maybe, that time, he gripped Roland a bit tighter than normal, mumbling an apology when the kid objected – directly in his ear. Henry tried to smile, glancing back up at Killian and any thoughts he’d ever had about leaving seemed to disappear right in front of him.

“I’m not going anywhere kid,” he said, trying infuse honesty and certainty into every single word. “Not this time.”  
  
Will exhaled, shoulders sagging just a bit and Robin tightened his hold on Henry staring at Killian with something that felt distinctly like pride and Regina didn’t make any noise, but she might have blinked a bit more than usual, shuffling towards the door in a totally impractical set of high heels.

“Yeah?” Henry asked softly, and Killian nodded before the word was even out of his mouth.

“Stuck with me this time. The whole lot of you.”  
  
“I think that’s ok.”   
  
“So do I.”   
  
“Mom made pie this time.”   
  
“A Christmas miracle.”   
  
“Ass,” Regina mumbled, pushing Killian’s coat against his arm and tugging Roland away from him, but there was a distinct lack of bitterness in her voice and she was smiling. “He’d be proud of you. And happy for you.”

There was a sudden lack of air in that apartment and Will made a totally different noise, closer to a choke and maybe a _guffaw_ and Regina’s eyes were definitely just a bit glossy.

“You’re suddenly a Christmas sap, Gina,” Killian grinned, ready for Roland when he leapt at him as soon as he’d gotten his jacket back on.

And maybe he hoped she was right.

They had to take two cars – Killian somehow in the back between Henry and Roland while Will cackled in the passenger's seat and it only took a few minutes to get across town and another for Regina to mention her last name and earn access to any part of the hospital and it was almost surprising that they didn't actually roll out a red carpet for her.

“What do you think it is to have that kind of power?” Will muttered, just loud enough for Regina to hear and, immediately, roll her eyes.

“I think it’s in the stare,” Killian said. “She’s got a way of just kind boring into your soul that makes people automatically do what she wants. How do you think she got into all of those shows when we were kids?”  
  
“You were twenty years old,” Regina grumbled, not breaking stride as they marched down the hallway. “Stop trying to make it seem like you were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”   
  
“Gina, I would never use the phrase bushy-tailed in my life, please stop suggesting that I would.”   
  
“Yeah, you’re going to ruin his rep in front of your kids,” Will chuckled.

Regina scoffed. “His rep, if he even has one here, is of distinct pushover’ness. Don’t think I don’t know that you guys ate a bunch of those peanut butter trees on the way over here.”  
  
“You can’t prove that, Gina,” Killian argued, but he glanced quickly towards Henry who definitely had chocolate stuck on the corner of his lips and he should have checked for that. “Ah, damn, kid, you’ve got to destroy the evidence.”   
  
“A fantastic role model,” Robin muttered. “And, let’s get this straight, it’s not the stare that does it, it’s the way she shifts her weight on her heels and, like, elongates her spine. It’s a battle pose. Intimidates people.”   
  
“Oh, yeah,” Will and Killian agreed at the same time and Regina looked like she wanted to battle all three of them right there in the hallway, but they’d turned a corner and there was yelling coming from a room and what sounded suspiciously like MarioKart sound effects.

“God, they’re awfully stereotypical on this side of the family aren't they?” Robin asked, flashing a smile Killian’s direction, a shockwave of _emotion_ shooting down his spine.

He should probably just tell Emma he was absolutely head over heels in love with her and had been for months and he’d kind of danced around that, but it wasn’t the same and _not_ telling her was becoming more and more difficult.

Maybe not when they were in the hospital.

“So, uh, what do we do here?” Will asked, a bag in his hand that might have just been filled with bottles of champagne that they absolutely weren’t supposed to bring into the hospital. “Knock on the door and announce we brought pie and something vaguely holiday?”  
  
Robin shrugged. “Seems legit, right? Where’s A? She was supposed to bring the coffee.”   
  
The footsteps sounded almost as soon as he’d finished asking the question – and she couldn’t actually _run_ because of the actual boxes of coffee she was holding. “What the hell, Scarlet? You said you’d wait for me downstairs!”   
  
“Hey, A. Merry Christmas, A. You remember to bring creamer, A?”   
  
“I’m not an idiot. How come you didn’t wait? There was a plan!”

She glanced at Killian quickly when she realized what she’d said and he couldn’t really brush her off when he was still holding Roland. “It’s fine, A,” he promised. “I know all about the plan and, for what it’s worth, this might be the nicest thing any of these assholes have done for me.”

Ariel grinned, but Will kicked at Killian’s ankle and Robin looked like he was still debating knocking on the door. They were definitely playing MarioKart. “We’re only doing this because we like Henry more than you, Hook,” Will muttered. “And I couldn’t stay in the lobby because once Gina stopped glaring at that nurse she would have sensed the ridiculous amount of alcohol I was trying to sneak into this hospital. I’m not really interested in getting arrested on Christmas.”  
  
“I mean, there is a detective up here who could probably vouch for you,” Robin reasoned. Killian tried not to sigh too loudly. “I’m just saying...shot in the line of duty, he’s probably going to get a medal from the city. I’m surprised it’s not all over the front pages of the tabs yet.”   
  
That caught Killian short.

“Wait, is it not?” he asked. Robin shook his head. “That’s...that’s insane, right? That’s a fantastic headline. The tabs should be having a field day with that.”  
  
“Maybe don’t mention that to your girlfriend when we actually go in the room.”   
  
Killian ignored him. “Why isn’t that happening? Gina? What’s going on?”   
  
“I honestly have no idea,” she said. “But I’ve been looking every day for the last week and there’s...nothing. Not a single mention of the raid or David getting hurt or anything. It’s, uh, that’s super weird.”   
  
“I can’t believe you just said the word’s _super weird_ out loud.”   
  
“It’s a holiday.”   
  
He laughed softly, but something in the back of his mind knew it was as _super weird_ as Regina promised it was and that was the second time something had happened at Wesselton’s that didn’t make front-page news. Or implicated Gold in anything.

God damn.

“How much alcohol are we talking?” Ariel asked, clearly trying to change the subject and Killian probably would have appreciated that if his arm wasn’t starting to go numb from holding Roland.

Will shrugged. “Like...a shit ton.”  
  
“Scarlet,” Regina snapped, and a chair scraped from inside the room.

Elsa leaned around the open doorframe, a cookie in one hand. “Hey,” she blinked when she saw the small crowd in the hallway. “What...does Emma know you’re here?”  
  
“No,” Killian shook his head and Elsa beamed at him. “We brought dessert. Regina terrified a nurse. Scarlet’s snuck in just, like, a ridiculous amount of alcohol. Oh and A brought several tons of coffee.”

“Em! We’re going to need to steal some more chairs.”  
  
“What?” Emma called back, and Killian felt the smile on his face immediately, the stares of his friends obvious and he didn’t care about that. He only cared about the footsteps he could barely make out and that one piece of hair that had fallen across her face when she jogged towards the door.

She opened her mouth twice when her eyes landed on him and there was still a seven-year-old strapped to his side. “Hey,” Killian grinned and Emma’s eyes widened. “We snuck alcohol into the hospital.”  
  
“What?”

“And pie. Several different varieties of pie.”  
  
Emma’s eyes darted across the hallway, taking stock of the small crowd and the smiles and Ariel was actually wearing a felt hat. “Several different varieties of pie?” she repeated, one side of her mouth tugging up and his heart did something absurd when she took a step towards him, hand on his chest.

“Gina made them,” Killian muttered, and Emma looked stunned. “We’re, well, surprise. And Merry Christmas.”

She kissed him.

Right there in front of his friends and quasi-family and Roland was hanging off his side.

And maybe some kind of ghost of Christmas past that might have just been Captain Liam Jones and Killian really hoped he was as proud as Gina promised he would be. He’d obviously lost his mind – given up to holiday spirit and what he thought was chocolate cream pie when he’d been tasked with packing that bag before they left Spring Street.

Roland kicked him in the thigh three different times while trying to wiggle his way back onto the ground and Robin must have moved because he mumbled something and there were footsteps, but Killian was a bit preoccupied making out with his girlfriend to notice any of it or listen to Elsa when she directed them back into the room.

“I don’t know where we’ll find more chairs,” Emma mumbled against his lips and his answering laugh felt normal and natural and a slew of other adjectives that didn’t match up with a potential New York tabloid cover-up.

“It’s a hospital, love, there’s got to be chairs somewhere we can steal.”  
  
“I’m not sure if stealing on Christmas is very in the spirit of the holiday. And we already stole a bunch out of the waiting room when the rest of the team got here.”   
  
“How’s your brother?”   
  
Emma hummed, resting her forehead against his shoulder and he didn’t remember moving his hands to her waist, but they were already moving and his fingers were tracing along the edge of her shirt. “I mean as good as can be expected, I guess? I don’t...Ruth is here. Flew in a couple of days ago and is trying to get M’s to stay at a hotel with her so she stops sleeping in one of those stolen chairs.”   
  
“I can’t imagine she’s very into that idea.”   
  
“No,” Emma shook her head. “The opposite of that. I don’t think she’s actually been outside since she got here.”   
  
Killian glanced over her head, trying to see into the room and he couldn’t actually find Mary Margaret in the sea of people and holiday-themed desserts. “What about you, love?” he asked. “When’s the last time you’ve been home?”   
  
“You mean Mary Margaret’s? Um...a couple days ago? I grabbed some new clothes and M’s needed someone to deliver lesson plans so the sub could do something other than just show a video. I tried to tell her that the kids wouldn’t appreciate that, but, you know, she’s Mary Margaret, so the kids need to learn or something. She’s on break now though, until the New Year, so she can kind of just breathe.”   
  
“I’m sure the kids will still learn something,” Killian said, moving his hand so he could trace his thumb across her cheek and her eyelids fluttered. “And that was a rather ingenious way of bypassing most of my question.”   
  
“I was wondering if you’d just let that one slide.”   
  
“Not a chance.”

She laughed softly, pressing a kiss against his lips and smiling when he chased after her. “I’m exhausted,” she whispered. “And that’s, God, that’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever thought, but I can’t sleep in these chairs and I can’t sleep in that apartment and I’ve been showering at Ruby’s, but then it feels like even more charity and we’ve got to play in two days and I’m worried about that too. What if something happens?”  
  
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Killian said quickly, ignoring that frustrating voice in the back of his head that was just as terrified that something was absolutely going to happen.

“You were missing that crucial piece of truth you needed to make the lie believable.”

Killian smiled, but it felt a bit disingenuous and Emma really did look as if she was averaging three hours of sleep a night. “You’re going to win, Swan. Fuck whatever anyone else is doing or trying to do.”  
  
“You really think that?”   
  
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”   
  
She stared at him, eyes tracing across his face like she was looking for another lie and he really couldn’t just start spouting sentimental nonsense on Christmas when he had half a plan and maybe just a bit of hope and a decidedly romantic idea for what happened next.

“I...I don’t know,” Emma admitted softly, but it felt much bigger. “I mean, for all we know we’re going up against some drug-toting crime boss who wants to take over the world and I just want to win a couple hundred-thousand dollars. Seems kind of absurd doesn’t it? There are way too maybe’s and hopefully’s for any of this to be more than completely uncertain.”  
  
Killian pressed a kiss to her forehead, finger still tracing across the curve of her jaw and into hair and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her he loved her yet. “Come home with me,” he said, and that was almost the same thing.

Almost.

“What?” Emma breathed, and the plan was suddenly _happening_ and he pulled his hand away from her to tug the chain off his neck. “Wait, wait, what are you doing?” she asked, a muscle in her temple jumping when she clenched her jaw.

The hallway lights seemed to reflect off the stone that wasn’t actually _real_ and Killian’s whole body felt heavy when the ring swung on the chain in his hand. He couldn't remember the last time he’d taken that off.

“Not even remotely what you’re suggesting, Swan,” he laughed, mostly so he wouldn't lose his nerve. “It’s Christmas.”  
  
“You say that like it’s an explanation.”   
  
He grinned at her, but Emma’s eyes were focused on the ring and the stone and the engravings on the side, eyebrows pinched as she tried to read what it said. She gasped when she did.

“Killian,” she started, shaking her head, but he waved his hand, realizing, half a second too late that it was his left and none of this was going according to plan.

It was, he reasoned, because she’d kissed him in front of everyone.

Or maybe he just loved her.

It wasn’t really much of a ring – the stone, was after all, fake and the granite or ruby or whatever it was supposed to be, was bordering far too close to tacky, but when they sent Killian the rest of Liam’s belongings from the middle of the goddamn Pacific Ocean, he’d found it stuffed in between a dress uniform and a Hunter college t-shirt and, for some reason, he’d kept it.

A reminder.

And maybe some poor attempt at trying to honor his brother with a high-school ring that he’d only gotten because he was salutatorian at some fancy science school and no one could believe that Liam Jones enlisted.

_He had his whole future ahead of him. He could have gone anywhere. He could have gotten scholarships._

He didn’t. He took the ring and he went into the Navy and he got paid and made sure Killian kept doing his homework. And Killian kept the ring.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he said softly. Emma licked her lips, that one piece of hair moving across her forehead when she shook her head again.

“No, no,” she muttered. “I...Killian, I can’t take this.”  
  
“You’re not taking it, Swan. The opposite of that, in fact. That’s usually how these things work.”

“But that’s….”  
  
“I know.”   
  
“You can’t.”   
  
Killian twisted his eyebrows, hoping the smirk almost looked genuine and distracted from the way his heart was pounding in his chest. “I think I already did,” he grinned. “Nothing is going to happen, but, well, it could have before and I’m fairly certain this is why. It doesn’t make any sense, but it might be good luck or possibly haunted, so maybe this isn’t as romantic as I’m making it out to be at all.”   
  
She laughed softly, lip pulled tightly between her teeth. “Consider it good luck,” Killian continued. “For whatever happens next.”   
  
He wasn’t sure when that became their consistent tag-line or subhead or whatever journalism pun he could come up with, but it felt like _something_ and Emma’s fingers didn’t tremble when she reached out.

“Good luck, huh?” she asked again, and Killian nodded. “I thought nothing was going to happen.”

“Don’t forget sweeping romanticism. Move that up to reason number one.”  
  
“Of course.”   
  
He smiled – real and genuine and his heart was still beating far too fast, but that might have been because her fingers brushed over his or maybe because she didn’t even flinch when his left hand fell on her hip. “You’re going to win,” Killian said. “In two days and the whole goddamn tournament and as for the maybe’s and hopefully’s, I’ve learned never to question yours. This is going to work, Emma.”

“That was kind of romantic too,” she muttered.

“Good.”

She took a deep breath, tongue darting out between her lips when she looked back up at him and pulled the chain out of his fingers. It landed just above the emblem on her t-shirt, the light sending streaks of red across her face and that probably would have almost been festive if Killian wasn’t far too focused on the way she traced over the chain or smiled cautiously at him and they’d have to drag him out of New York now.

One of them moved – they had to, because they were kissing again and Killian’s hand was under her shirt and Emma was on tiptoes and he could feel her smile and the ring in between them and he wanted her to come home with him every night.

Possibly because, at some point, he’d just started thinking of _her_ as home.

“Were guys ever going to come in?” Ruby asked, appearing out of nowhere and leaning around the open doorframe like she knew exactly what had been going on in that hallway.

Emma made an exasperated sound, not even bothering to turn around. She just wrapped her arms around Killian’s waist and burrowed her head against the front of his jacket. “You have absolutely no idea how to read a situation do you?”

“Oh, no, I do, but David is awake again and wants to know where you disappeared to. Somehow I think _making out with boyfriend in hallway_ wouldn’t play very well.”   
  
Emma sighed, but she didn’t argue the qualifier or the description. “Did he try to play the game?”   
  
“Obviously. It’s a testament to how preoccupied you were with the whole making out thing that you didn’t actually hear the good Detective yelling at us about how we’d started playing without him.”   
  
“Wait, wait,” Killian cut in, earning a quirked eyebrow from Ruby. “You guys were playing MarioKart while David was what...asleep?”   
  
Ruby shrugged, but Emma looked a little repentant, a flush in her cheeks that, likely, didn’t have anything to do with the aforementioned making out. “He’s just been shot,” Emma rationalized. “He’s supposed to be sleeping all the time! What did he expect us to do, just sit here and stare at each other?”   
  
“I mean, probably,” Ruby muttered. “Maybe write some speeches about his questionable MarioKart talent.”   
  
“He’s not actually playing is he? That can’t be good for his stomach.”   
  
“Em, he can’t even sit up properly. You think M’s is going to let him even try to hold a controller?” Ruby shook her head and Killian could hear the arguing now, David promising he was _fine_ and _c’mon, babe, that’s Rainbow Road_ , but Mary Margaret muttered something and no one said anything else. “Also,” Ruby added, voice taking on a slightly more serious tone, “Ruth is demanding that she meet, and this is verbatim, the boyfriend.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned. Killian was never going to stop smiling. Merry Christmas or something. “Jeez, stop smiling. You look like some kind of fictional cat.”   
  
“Who’s she talking to?” Ruby asked Killian and he shrugged in response.

“I honestly don’t know. Probably you. You look like you’ve eaten several canaries recently.”  
  
“Gross. You’re gross. This is gross. You two are gross.”   
  
“You really just ran the gamut there, didn’t you?”

“Wanted to make sure I hit all my bases.”  
  
Killian nodded, eyes darting back towards Emma when she sighed, but then he caught sight of that ring again and nothing else really mattered. Another set of footsteps joined the fray and Ruby grumbled when she was pushed to the other side of the door. “God, M’s, when did you become a bodybuilder?” she asked. “Relax.”   
  
“Then move your feet,” Mary Margaret countered, and she looked even more exhausted than any of them put together. “Em, oh, hey, Killian,” she muttered distractedly, tugging on the back of Emma’s shirt. “You’ve got to come back in here. Henry’s trying to teach Ruth how to play and that’s just making David more annoyed and Will can’t figure out how to get any of the bottles open without a bottle opener or alerting the entire medical staff that they snuck alcohol into a hospital. I think Regina might actually kill him.”   
  
“She wouldn’t kill him on Christmas,” Killian said. “Not with her kids here. I’d worry about him later though. And we really didn’t bring a bottle opener?”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “I can’t believe you did any of this, honestly. It’s...thank you. Even if David is super frustrated he can’t play MarioKart.”   
  
“He does realize he got shot, right?”   
  
“No,” all of three of them answered at once. “He actually tried to get out of bed two days ago,” Emma continued. “Nearly gave me and M’s multiple heart attacks.”   
  
More footsteps. Ruby nearly crashed onto her knees when Anna skidded to a stop behind her and there was no point in walking into the room if they were just going to have this conversation in the hallway.

“Oh, hey, Killian, I didn’t know you were here too,” she said brightly, and Ruby didn’t even try to mask her laugh.

“Where else would he be? He’s making out with Emma again.”  
  
“We are standing right there,” Emma muttered, but that worked as well as trying to tell David he couldn’t play MarioKart less than two weeks after major abdominal surgery. “What’s the matter, Anna? If it’s about Ruth, we already know.”   
  
“No, no, although, yes, kind of because now she’s just referring to Killian as the BF, like that’s something people actually say.” Emma mumbled something under her breath, letting her head fall back against Killian’s shoulder and he moved his hand to brush across the back of her neck, letting his thumb trace along the chain.

Mary Margaret glanced meaningfully at Ruby and they were very good at communicating silently.

“Anyway,” Anna continued. “Roland wanted you guys to come in because he wants pie. It’s way less dramatic than your mom meeting your boyfriend.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, but something in the very center of Killian seemed to settle at the idea of all of this and Mary Margaret had definitely noticed the chain. “Yeah, ok, we’ll be right there. Do we have plates? Or forks or anything?”   
  
“We brought all of that,” Killian said.

“What, really?”  
  
“Swan, we brought, like, a dozen pies for a dozen people, you think we didn’t also bring cutlery?”   
  
“You didn’t bring a bottle opener!”   
  
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t in charge of packing that bag. That’s totally Scarlet’s fault. Anna, make sure you mention that several times, ok?”   
  
Anna scoffed, saluting and pulling on Ruby’s wrist to drag her back towards the room and the increasingly familiar sound effects of a red shell hitting a driver. Mary Margaret didn’t follow immediately, eyes flitting back towards Killian’s hand and he was fairly certain she was trying to send him a message.

“I’ll, uh, I’ve got to make sure David doesn’t try to move again,” she said before all but sprinting away. Emma might have actually growled.

“None of them know how to deal with this,” she mumbled.

“He’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian said. “Did they mention anything about rehab or when he’d moved rooms again?”  
  
“No, no, that’s...I think the doctors have mentioned some places to M’s, but that’s not what I was talking about.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”

“Ruth is using the term BF like she’s in high school and Ruby’s commenting on the making out in hallways and we keep making out in hallways and having these decidedly romantic moments in hallways and I didn’t know you were going to be here and your Christmas present might be in Ruby’s apartment because I’ve lost all track of time and days and…”  
  
She took a deep breath, green eyes flashing up towards him and he tried not to kiss her. He did. It didn’t really work.

“You keep doing that,” Emma muttered, tugging lightly on the back of his hair and the _joy_ he could feel inching through every inch of him felt decidedly out of place in a hospital, but it made all the sense in the world as soon as he looked at her.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and her eyebrows shifted when she didn’t get the argument she was likely waiting for.

“This is…uncharted territory for me. A brand-new map and I don’t have any idea how to play and please tell me to shut up because this is the worst metaphor in the world.”  
  
“I was enjoying it.”   
  
“Was that for real before?”   
  
“Was what real before?”   
  
“Coming uptown. Going home with you. Because Ruby doesn’t have an air mattress and her couch is even worse than M’s and David’s and I’m so tired.”   
  
Killian nodded, pulse picking up and hand ghosting over the ring and this was big and important and some kind of turning point he could almost actually see. “Of course,” he said, meaning every letter. “Yes, yeah, absolutely. And, just for the record as it were, I am playing some kind of brand-new map too. This isn’t...this is a big deal, Emma.”   
  
She pulled her lips back behind her teeth, pulling her hand up to rest on top of his and he would have sworn, under oath, that he could feel an electric shock shoot up his arm as soon as she touched him.

“It was the rules,” Emma said suddenly.  

“What?”  
  
“Your Christmas gift. Which on second thought is definitely sitting above the microwave at M’s and David’s. It was the rules. Of Overwatch. Written out. So you knew what was going on.”  

He was frozen – a statue in the middle of the hallway who could only manage to blink and stare at her and hope she realized that she was at the center of absolutely everything.

Emma clicked her tongue when he didn’t anything, shaking her head slightly. “See, uncharted territory,” she muttered. “I’ve never really done Christmas gifts or relationship-type Christmas gifts. Like ever.”  
  
“Swan,” Killian interrupted, squeezing her hand lightly. “Thank you.”   
  
“You didn’t even get it yet. It’s on a microwave.”   
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
“Yeah? Or no? I don’t know what word to use there.”   
  
“Either one worked actually.”   
  
“Good to know,” she smiled, tugging herself up with his jacket as leverage and she didn’t kiss him the way he thought she would. She wrapped her arms around him and held on like she didn’t ever want to let him go and neither one of them moved for, what felt like, several lifetimes.

He met Ruth eventually – introduced as _this is Killian, Emma’s boyfriend_ and no one argued that point or the way Emma solved the chair problem by simply dropping onto his leg and draping her arm over her shoulder and everyone in the room used two forks so they didn’t inadvertently mix pie flavors on their palate.

And David whined about not getting to play, but he fell asleep eventually and so did Roland, taking up a corner of the hospital bed and Henry beat all of them soundly in MarioKart.

And no one questioned Emma when she left with Killian, arm around his waist and head on his shoulder and she nearly fell asleep in the cab uptown.

They managed to get into the building, nodding towards the security guard at the front desk and Emma curled against him when Killian eventually tugged the blankets over them, pulling his arm around her and her hair was everywhere.

“God, you’re warm,” she mumbled, and he smiled against her neck, kissing her skin and her hair and it smelled like vanilla. “How are you always so warm?”

“It’s a talent. Go to sleep, love.”  
  
She hummed, pressing her feet against his and his arm tightened out of instinct. They both slept through the night.

And the next night.

The rest of the team was already at the Theatre two days later, back on the corner of the curb with coffee cups in their hands and anxious smiles on their faces. It was going to be fine.

Absolutely.

Killian glanced around the block, not quite sure what he was looking for exactly, but Will’s eyes didn’t stop moving either and Elsa was pressed up on tiptoes, looking for someone or something and none of them looked particularly at ease in their matching, team-branded t-shirts.

“We’re going to wreck,” Ruby said, like she was broadcasting the news to anyone who was willing to listen, but her gaze flitted towards Emma.

Her phone was still making noise, the dull buzz of text messages somehow audible over the din of Times Square and that didn’t make sense either, but if there was ever a time for technology-based miracles it was then and if there was one thing Killian had learned in the last thirty-six hours, it was that Mary Margaret was very good at hope. No matter what outlet she was using to spread it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said, nodding once and her smile actually looked closer to determined than the nervous it had been in the backseat of the cab. “We almost even practiced for this round.”  
  
“We’re naturally talented,” Belle reasoned.

“Was that a joke?” Ruby gaped, and Anna threw her whole head back and laughed, some of the tension in the group dissolving. “Babe, I didn’t know you did jokes.”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s just rude. Of course I do jokes. I’m a living human. I have a sense of humor.”

“I’m not questioning that. I’m just saying, you know, that was funny.”  
  
“Thanks,” Belle answered dryly. Elsa had joined in on the laughter and even Killian felt his shoulders shift slightly, Emma breathing easier next to him.

“Plus,” Ruby added. “We’re the first ones to go this time. We get in, we destroy everything and then we get out. It’s super simple. We might even make it to Granny’s before the dinner rush and holiday rush and we can get all the onion rings we want.”  
  
“Granny would never deny us onion rings,” Emma said.

Killian scoffed and she glanced up at him, a grin on her face and eyes just a bit brighter and he liked having her next to him and uptown and in every single corner of his life as much as he expected he would and that tiny pile of her clothes just in front of his closet was starting to get larger. He didn’t think she noticed that.

“Ok,” Emma continued, nodding again and the whole team snapped to attention. Will just snapped more pictures. “So, we’re playing Humbert and whatever his team name is…”  
  
“Star Horn Royal Club,” Anna finished with a smirk.

“Yeah, exactly that. Whatever, Humbert is good. He’s got quick reflexes and if he’s attack then he’s going to sneak Symmetra past us and get into the castle that way. Obviously, if we’re attack, we’re going to do that too, but we know we’re smart.”  
  
“You’re really nailing this pep talk, Em,” Ruby muttered, and Emma stuck her tongue out. “When did you even find time to strategy this?”   
  
“You know, technically, the word would be strategize,” Killian said. Ruby looked like she’d already come up with six different ways to murder him right there.

“I’m not sure I remembered asking for an English lesson, Jones.”  
  
He shrugged and Will might have actually snickered, finger clicking on his camera quickly. Emma groaned – loudly. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “We’ve known about this map for weeks, like, actual weeks and whatever I’ve been doing in the last forty-eight hours has no bearing on my ability to plan strategy for a video game. That was grammatically correct, right?”

Killian wasn’t entirely ready to be addressed, eyes going wide and mouth going slack and Ruby nearly fell over under the force of her laughter. “God, he’s so busy daydreaming about you, he can’t even listen to you, Em.”  
  
“Definitely grammatically correct,” Killian said, ignoring Ruby completely. Emma grinned.

Elsa made a noise, waving both her hands in the air. “We’re attack,” she said, waving her phone in the air. “They just announced it. And we’re, apparently, super late because they just announced that on the stream and we are still standing on the sidewalk.”  
  
“God fucking damnit,” Emma hissed, rolling her head back onto Killian’s shoulder. “Alright, let’s get inside and get this over with. I’ll Genji this map.”   
  
Ruby let out a low whistle and Belle didn’t make another joke, but they both looked somewhere in the realm of _impressed_ and Killian never had actually gotten his Christmas gift of hand-written rules or game explanations.

“That seems important,” Will muttered, glancing at Killian over the top of another camera.

“You’re going to have to time that, like, perfectly,” Ruby said. “If you can’t get the jump across the bridge then you’re not very good to us at all. And Humbert is totally going to fortify the shit out of that bridge. Not a word on that grammar, Jones.”

Killian raised his hand in mock surrender, keeping the other one wrapped around Emma. “It is important,” she said. “And, Rubes is right, if it doesn’t work, we’re totally fucked, but if it does work, then we can get the payload, move and win the whole damn thing. We get the first round under our belts or, whatever, and suddenly we’re in the driver’s seat.”  
  
“That was a lot of clichés in one strategy,” Belle smiled.

“Yeah, well, this might be for nothing if we’re all framed for murder or something. So we might as well do everything we can to win, right?”  
  
“Here, here,” Anna shouted, holding her hand out in front of her like they were getting ready to run onto some kind of field instead of the Playstation Theatre.

“What is this?” Ruby asked. “What are you doing?”  
  
Belle mumbled something under her breath, grabbing Ruby’s wrist and thrusting her hand on top of Anna’s. “Well, come on,” she said, nodding to the rest of them and they all moved their arms, a circle of limbs and hands and _team spirit_ and Will tried to take a picture of it all while also being part of it. “Go team or get wrecked or something.”   
  
“Get wrecked?” Emma repeated skeptically, and Belle shrugged.   
  
“We keep using that phrase. Seemed almost appropriate.”   
  
“Wrecked by Wail,” Emma mused, eyes bright when she glanced towards Killian. “Check that alliteration, counselor.”   
  
“Good headline,” he agreed.

“We’ll talk my cut later. Alright, all for one and one for all and let’s go wreck.”

Will took more pictures as they pushed their way into the crowd, weaving through other teams and Ruby shouting to _get out of the way_ and that helped, people practically leaping away from them when they noticed the sneer on her face.

He still had no idea what a Genji was.

This story needed to get to three-hundred hits in twenty-four hours or he was fairly certain Cora would just shred his contract and then throw his very fancy desk out of the window, fueled solely on adrenaline and doing exactly what Gold asked of her.

The raid didn’t make print. And Emma thought that first-round monkey lost on purpose. And no one else was ever supposed to get hurt.

This was all his fault.

“Hey,” Emma said, twisting in front of him and tugging lightly on the zipper of his jacket. “I said your name, like, six times.”  
  
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and trying to push out thoughts and worries and that fairly pitiful self loathing that absolutely wouldn’t help anyone win the second round of a video game tournament.

“You ok?” Emma asked, and the ring had fallen over the top of her shirt. Killian nodded slowly. “Yeah, you really look it. C’mon, I can almost hear the gears working, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing, love,” he lied.

She lifted her eyebrows, mouth quirked. “Did you not hear the pep talk? We’re going to wreck. It’s already been decided.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt about your ability to wreck, Swan.”   
  
“Then…”   
  
Killian took a deep breath and this was the last place they should be doing this or having this conversation, but he’d given her Liam’s ring in a hospital hallway and that pile of clothes kept growing and he’d been living in this strange, comfortable domestic bubble for the last forty-eight hours, so he hadn’t been willing to give into doubts that might not have any actual basis in fact.

“Is this because it hasn’t been anywhere?” Emma asked, and that was the last question he expected. “David and his heroism to the city and, you know, Wesselton wasn’t actually at the warehouse. Lance, that’s David’s partner, he showed up a couple of days before Christmas and said they could get the guys there and that was easy, but Wesselton has just...disappeared.”  
  
“What?”   
  
She nodded. “Like a ghost or something less melodramatic. He’s probably on some beach in Antigua or something, sipping mai tais and laughing about his drug cartel.”   
  
“That’s an oddly specific picture you’ve painted, Swan.”   
  
“I had some time to ponder before you brought me back uptown.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Killian asked, doing his best to keep the accusation out of his voice. He wasn’t angry – concerned and treading somewhere close to petrified that something would happen to _her_ and he was fairly positive he couldn’t deal with that.

“I mean there was already enough stuff going on, I didn’t think we needed to add another piece to this incredibly confusing puzzle. It’s like one of those eighty-thousand piece ones where half of it is just the sky and the same shade of blue.”  
  
“You are on a metaphor roll, love.”   
  
“It’s because I’ve been sleeping through the night,” she muttered, like she was admitting to something and, at least, six of Killian’s organs stopped functioning for, at least, two seconds while his brain processed that. “It’s been...is nice a super lame word?”   
  
“No,” he answered immediately. “Nice is not a super lame word. That’s exactly what it’s been.”   
  
Nice and easy and somewhere close to perfect and it might have been the best two nights of sleep he’d gotten since he moved into the apartment or in the last few months or, possibly, since he left New York, but that felt kind of absurd to say out loud.

Even with the lights from the Playstation Theatre reflecting off the ring around Emma’s neck.

“Good,” Emma said lightly, but it felt like the biggest word in the world and they really needed to pick better locations for these conversations. “Because I’ve kind of got a theory?”  
  
“Go on.”   
  
“So Gold is suddenly a new board member at Mills, right?” Killian nodded. “And he suddenly has an interest in journalism and up’ing your hit total and we’re definitely going to hit three-hundred on this one…” He felt the muscles in his face shift, the smile forming there out of instinct as soon as Emma’s voice picked up.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Gold realizes you’re covering us and we’re getting interest, enough to stream and make our own money that way, but he’s trying to build up Second Star and this Pan persona Neal apparently has. So he can’t have us looking good. That’s why he goes to Mills. But, and this is the theory part, what if this isn’t the first time he’s tried to use media to control the narrative?”  
  
Killian blinked, the sounds of the Theatre and whatever announcer was calling for the teams to get to the tables blurring slightly in the back corner of his mind. “You think he’s got someone on a staff? At a tab?”   
  
“Maybe. That almost makes sense, right? He shuts down stories and David doesn’t get the accolades he’s supposed to and no one ever bats an eyelash at Robert Gold and his millions. He just keeps to get controlling everything.”   
  
“This is insane,” Killian said before he could stop himself and he needed to expand his vocabulary. He needed to make a list of all the things he needed to do.

“The part I can’t rationalize, if that’s even something that’s possible at this point, is how Neal and Jeff fit into any of this. They’re not...well, I mean they’re not good guys, but I can’t figure out how they got wrapped up in any of this.”  
  
Killian bit his tongue, the questions he could feel on the tip of it almost dragging him into the floor or, maybe, a step closer to Emma and she didn’t look very surprised. “Go ahead,” she said. “I asked you a question, by default you get a follow-up.”   
  
“We don’t have to follow those rules, Swan. This is a brand-new ball game.”   
  
“That was a good cliché,” Emma laughed softly before it morphed into something that sounded like that actual embodiment of disappointment. She moved her hand away from his zipper and Killian’s knees nearly buckled when she tugged on the ring, twisting it on the chain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He bit his tongue again.

“How did you meet Neal?” Killian asked softly. She had to go. She had to go play video games. She had to go _wreck_ at video games and screw over some crime lord that she hadn’t agreed to fighting and he was teetering on some metaphorical edge again.

Emma’s eyes dulled, the green not quite so _green_ and Killian’s tongue was going to sustain permanent damage. He dimly wondered if you could get stitches in your tongue, but then Emma was talking and his attention snapped back towards her, hands landing on her hips despite the crowd around them.

“I was seventeen and David and M’s had just left and so I’d left,” she started, voice forced and quiet and he had to strain to hear every word. “I went back to Portland and I was trying to figure out what to do. There wasn’t much. I didn’t have a degree, but Ruth couldn’t get me back home without calling the cops and then they’d probably take me away anyway and so...no one came after me.

I’d been playing games for awhile already and I was getting pretty good. And it was starting to get popular. David entered me in some online tournament thing the year before and I won a bunch of money and that wasn’t even real, not really, so I figured, maybe I could do that and make enough to get somewhere that wasn’t Portland, but I didn’t have anyway to get out. So, uh, I stole a car.”  
  
“What?” Killian asked, wincing when he realized he’d all but shouted the word in her face.

Emma smiled sadly. “Yeah, the only problem was that someone else had already done the same thing.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”

“Neal had already stolen the car,” she muttered. “I’d stolen a stolen car.”  
  
“That’s actually fairly impressive.”   
  
“Are you encouraging grand theft auto?”   
  
“I mean if Anna’s going to stream it…”   
  
She laughed, the nervous edge gone and the glint back in her eyes and some absurdly selfish corner of his brain did jumping jacks at that. Like he’d caused that. Ass. “Trust me, this was way less fun,” Emma said. “So, well, that’s how I met Neal and he was good at playing so this was a million and two years ago and Halo was super popular, so we got a team together and started playing and Neal knew Jeff from Michigan and they were both system kids. I think that’s why I wanted to trust them, you know? Like they’d known what I’d gone through or something.”   
  
Killian hummed, hand moving and bunching up the sleeve of her jacket. “That’s not unusual, love,” he said softly.

“Ah, all those maybe’s and hopefully’s we were talking about. I’ve just...David and M’s had a house and a home and enough love to spark several rainbows and, like, what’s at the end of rainbows? Pots of gold?”  
  
“In theory.”   
  
“Well, those too. I mean, you met Ruth. She’d move several galaxies for David and M’s wakes up in the morning and talks to birds or something. I’ve never had that. Even when I was there, it was always tinted just a shade darker and I wanted, God, I wanted that so badly.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t,” Killian said, and some kind of conversational miracle that he managed to even get the words out, mind racing and heart racing and the only thing he wanted to tell her was that it _had_ happened and could _keep_ happening and he loved her so much the thought made him go cross-eyed.

Maybe not that last part.

That was, decidedly, unromantic.

“Yeah, I know,” Emma whispered. He didn’t expect that either. “You really think we’re going to win? Even if Gold is running headlines and controlling Neal and Jeff and organizing southern drug rings?”  
  
“Yes,” Killian answered immediately. “Without a doubt. And his headlines wouldn’t have anything on your alliteration.”

He couldn't read the expression on her face – the look that sent a shockwave of _something_ down his spine and into his toes and he wasn’t certain this wasn’t all just some weird dream and he’d wake up in fucking New Orleans with more wires sticking out of him and his hand gone and they’d tell him everything else was gone too. God, he hoped not.

And for as much as he promised _open book_ , he didn’t want to try and read her mind, he wanted her to tell him, to explain and talk and keep talking on some kind of indefinite scale. Off the record. Or on the record. He didn’t care. And then, maybe, she could just bring the rest of her clothes uptown too and never leave.

Or something.

“Em,” Ruby called a few feet away and both of them snapped toward the sound. “C’mon, we’ve gotta play.”  
  
Emma nodded, lip twisted in between her teeth and a pinch in between her eyebrows. “Swan,” Killian muttered, ducking his head and trying to work his way into her eye line. “Emma.”   
  
She seemed to jump to attention and if it wasn’t so loud in that Theatre he probably would have heard her heels clack together. “Emma, love,” he continued, and her eyes got wider at the combination of endearment and actual name. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, but she didn’t look away from him and he’d probably remember that most. She just nodded once and wrapped her fingers around both of his hands and smiled when she spoke. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm really into cliffhangers in this story. Sorry about that. I got to keep you guys coming back though. As always, thank you for clicking and reading and commenting. It's real nice. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down. There's hockey fic coming on Thursday.


	24. Chapter 24

Oh, well, damn.

She hadn’t been planning on doing that. At all. She’d been planning on doing the opposite of that. She was going to...what was the opposite of just blurting out _I love you_ before playing a video game tournament?

Something more normal.

None of this was normal.

And maybe that was why she’d done it, because Emma was totally, absolutely in love with him and it had just kind of _happened_ and, at some point, every hope and belief speech Mary Margaret had given her had apparently done its job because the words had been tumbling around in her head since he’d shown up with twelve different kinds of pies.

She’d been sleeping way too much.

As if that was something someone could do. She was too well rested and too...happy or something equally sentimental and that didn’t make any sense at all because Mary Margaret was still sleeping in a hospital chair and Ruth was paying an obscene amount of money to stay in a hotel because it was Manhattan and still, technically, the holidays, but Killian was so goddamn _warm_ , all the time, and Emma was fairly certain that was a sign.

To tell him she loved him. Apparently.

He hadn’t said anything back.

Oh, shit, he hadn’t said anything back.

Shit.

Emma licked her lips, blinking quickly so she didn’t do something else completely insane, like start to cry in the middle of the Playstation Theatre, and Ruby was still screaming her name.

“I, um…” she started, shaking her head to try and wake herself up and maybe this was a dream. Maybe they were still uptown and she hadn’t actually told him about stealing that car or more about Neal and there was still that last, little bit of story hanging over them or in between them, but she’d already _shouted_ sentiment at him and Killian could probably only deal with so much information at once.

“I’ve got to go play video games,” Emma finished, sinking her teeth into her lip as soon as the words seemed to land at her feet. Or maybe on her feet.

It hurt.

This was a disaster.

She tried to take a step away, to make sure Ruby didn’t actually walk away from the table and drag her back and the announcer was actually calling her by name, demanding her presence and it all felt a little ridiculous and she could feel her cheeks flush.

She did try to move.

And then she nearly fell over her own feet.

Emma glanced down to find Killian’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, eyes wide and shoulders moving quickly like he’d just run several blocks to follow her. He shook his head, tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth and she nearly fell over again when he finally looked back up at her – all blue and maybe just a hint desperate and he kept shaking his head like it was on a swivel.

“I’ve got to go,” Emma said again. “I had to go, like, ten minutes ago.”  
  
Killian made some kind of noise, not quite a sigh and Emma didn’t try to take another step. He pulled his hand away from hers, slowly like he was trying to move each finger one at a time, and brushed across the chain that had fallen over the front of her shirt and, well, maybe this wasn’t actually a disaster.

Maybe she could just shout sentiment in the middle of video game tournaments and it wouldn’t all blow up in her face.

She hoped so.

“I love you,” Killian said, easy and confident and _loud_ , like the words weren’t in some kind of life-changing order, like he was just asking her to come home with him again or giving her Liam’s ring and maybe he’d kind of said it all before she had.

Emma was the one who sighed then and she was going to _murder_ Ruby if she didn’t learn how to read a situation and the goddamn video games could wait two seconds.

They absolutely couldn’t, but Emma absolutely did not care.

And Killian Jones loved her back. And kept brushing his fingers across the back of her neck. And Emma wondered if he’d noticed just how big that pile of her clothes near his closet had gotten in the last two days.

She kind of hoped so.

“Yeah?” she asked softly, hating herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth.   
  
Killian smiled. “Yeah,” he promised. “Unquestionably.”   
  
“Good word.”   
  
“That’s kind of my thing.”   
  
“I mean it wasn’t an alliterative headline but…”   
  
She didn’t get to finish. He kissed her instead. And Emma wasn’t going to argue that. His lips slanted over hers, hand dropping down to her back to tug her against his chest and she didn’t have anywhere to put her arms, slinging them over his neck and pressing up on her toes and _everyone_ was going to see.

She almost didn’t care.

He’d never taken his jacket off and Emma held onto the back like she was holding onto an anchor, trying to keep her balance – in more ways than one. Killian didn’t move, just planted his feet on what was certainly the _ancient_ carpet in the Playstation Theatre and let his hand shift underneath the bottom of her jacket and along the bottom of her shirt and Emma swore the entire Earth moved.

Or, you know, more than it did regularly.

It might have fallen out of orbit or something. It certainly felt like gravity shifted.

Even Mary Margaret would have laughed at the ridiculous romanticism of that particular thought.

And while Emma might have been wobbling slightly on her feet, absolutely ignoring anything except whatever it was Killian was doing with his hand, he had started talking, mumbling incoherent words into her ear and the skin behind her ear and her hair and they were still in public.

There were people around them. There were people everywhere. There were other teams everywhere.

Oh, shit, Second Star.

Emma could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying – and it actually might have just been _I love you_ forty-seven times – and he made another noise when she pulled her head away, something in the general vicinity of a whine that left her smiling and out of breath and if this was what it felt like to exist without gravity than maybe Isaac Newton could just suck it.

Or whatever.

“I have to go,” Emma said again, bitterness seeping into every syllable and Ruby was definitely walking over because the approaching steps sounded a bit like _clomps_ and they were going to get disqualified.

“Yeah,” Killian agreed. He also didn’t move. Or let go of her.

“This is not me going.”  
  
“That’s also very true, Swan. I don’t know where Scarlet went. He’s supposed to take pictures.”   
  
“Of this?”   
  
“No, that would be weird. He’s supposed to take video game pictures. Of the video games.”   
  
Emma hummed and his hand was absolutely a distraction, but that might have just been the way he kept staring at her, like he didn’t care about the kissing or the location of the kissing or however out of place any of the _sentiment_ might have been.

“Makes sense at this video game tournament,” she mumbled, running her nails lightly over the back of his hair and Killian made a noise that was entirely unfair and maybe Ruby should come drag her away.

“God, Swan, you can’t do that,” he muttered, and she smiled even wider, the butterflies in her stomach making a return appearance.

“Why?”  
  
“Because there is a video game tournament going on and we are…”

Killian’s eyes fluttered when she twisted her wrist, pushing her fingers into his hair and wrapping them around the back of his neck and her calves were actually starting to cramp from standing on her tiptoes for so long. He took a sharp breath through his nose, lips pressed together tightly and Emma could dimly hear the sound of a camera shutter snapping.

“Scarlet is definitely taking pictures of this,” she laughed, and the clomping had stopped, Ruby’s glare almost audible from wherever she was standing. Emma didn’t actually turn and look.

Killian rolled his eyes. “I’m going to murder him.”  
  
“I think that kind of takes away from the romance of the moment, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well, Ruby looks like she’s going to kill me anyway, so I might as well make sure I take out Scarlet before she gets to me.”  
  
“This is premeditated. I’m an accessory now.”   
  
“First your alliterative headlines and now you’re explaining all these criminal terms to me, Swan?” Killian asked, dropping his head again and she couldn’t really breathe when he actually _nipped_ at that same spot behind her ear. “That’s cheating, love.”   
  
“How do you figure?”

“Strategy. Breaking down defenses. Something about picking the right character with the correct superpowers.”  
  
She laughed, using his jacket again to make sure she didn’t fall over, but the hand that had never left her back was doing a pretty good job of that as well, and Emma was so goddamn _happy_ she could hardly see straight.

That probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was.

“You know, you’d think you’d be better at understanding the game by this point,” Emma mumbled.

Killian chuckled against her neck and she could feel the turn of his lips when he realized there were goosebumps on her skin, pulling his head up to flash her a smile and press a quick kiss on the side of her cheek. “I think I’m getting there,” he said softly, but loud enough that Emma could hear it and maybe feel it or some impossible combination of both.

“That makes two of us.”  
  
“Good.”   
  
“Good?”   
  
“Didn’t we do this already, Swan?” he asked, still smiling and Emma wasn’t a science expert, so she wasn’t sure if you were supposed to feel lighter when gravity disappeared, but it did kind of feel like floating and maybe that was better. “Good, fantastic, incredible, exceptional,” he clicked his tongue, tapping his finger against the bottom of her shirt and Ruby might have growled a few feet away. Will was definitely taking pictures.

“This wasn’t really the plan, you know,” Emma pointed out. She needed to stop talking. She, maybe, needed to kiss her boyfriend again and use that as some kind of tangible evidence that he absolutely loved her back and, maybe, she hadn’t lost her mind.

The words just kept tumbling out of her and it was probably good that she wasn’t the one with the byline because, alliterative headlines aside, she clearly wasn’t very good at sentence structure.

Killian didn’t seem to mind. He was still making lists.

“Phenomenal, amazing, wonderful, astounding,” he continued, pulling his eyebrows down when he tried to come up with another synonym. “Extraordinary? Did we use that one yet?”  
  
Emma shook her head, the butterflies moving out of her stomach to attack her lungs. “No,” she muttered. “And did you say astounding? Does that really fit in there?”   
  
“Eh,” Killian shrugged. “Kind of. Although the amount that I do not care about the plan or parts of it that, maybe, happened out of order, is, wait for it, astounding.”   
  
She bit her lip, trying to swallow back her laughter and the butterflies and the pure joy she was fairly certain was just working its way through every inch of her and Emma’s head fell to Killian’s shoulders, dropping back onto her heels as she let him wrap both his arms around her.

“That was impressive,” she said. “Very charming.”  
  
“Honest.”   
  
“That might be even better.”   
  
“Good.”

There were announcements blaring over the speakers and spotlights darting across the floor and the upper balcony and she was probably supposed to be anywhere except where she was, twisted up in Killian’s arms, because she was probably supposed to wave to the fans.

There were a lot of fans there. She thought she saw some Wail t-shirts – possibly homemade because they absolutely did not have the money to fund their own shop without Wesselton, but that made Emma’s head spin a bit too.

Or maybe that was just the music they were playing.

“What is that noise?” Killian asked sharply, narrowing his eyes like that would make it easier to figure out what the sound was.   
  
“I think that’s actually Fall Out Boy.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma squeezed one eye shut, pushing up on Killian’s shoulder and his hand tightened on her waist so she wouldn’t actually fall over. “Yeah,” she confirmed, laughing when Killian looked personally offended. “That’s definitely that Centuries song. Man, we’re, like, at least three years behind the pump-up music curve.”

“Is that a specific brand of music?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, like the music they play on college football commercials and highlight reels and stuff. This is almost embarrassing though. They definitely used this years ago. I’m pretty positive Fall Out Boy has already released another album.”   
  
Killian looked stunned. “Why is that something you know?”   
  
“Oh, uh, M’s is secretly some kind of pop-punk aficionado? She’s fairly certain it’s still 2007. At least musically. And Fall Out Boy was also prominently featured on Madden ‘09, which was a David favorite. He was actually almost good at that one. I think it’s because the computer just boosted his stats for him.”

“You’re making that up.”  
  
“Which part?”   
  
“I honestly can’t decide which is most ridiculous.”

“It’s definitely Mary Margaret,” Emma decided. “I’m still fairly convinced that fall with both Madden and Fall Out Boy was some kind of torture device. God,” she groaned, leaning her head back when the song started to play again. “I take it back, this is worse.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that, Swan. This is good background. You have any secret musical fandoms I should be aware of?”

“Eh, I don’t totally resent Mary Margaret’s questionably deep rooted angst. I’m fairly partial to the guitar solo in that one My Chemical Romance song.”

Killian nodded in understanding. “I’m aware of that guitar solo. Plural, depending on the song, but I know which one you mean.”  
  
“How could you possibly know about guitar solos, but you didn’t know that this was Fall Out Boy? They’ve been playing it every round. They played it in Philadelphia.”   
  
“To be fair I was a little preoccupied in Philadelphia,” he muttered, and Emma bit her lip again so she didn’t just dissolve into the floor when he looked at her. “And Scarlet went through a very angsty, all dark clothing kind of thing spring semester freshman year. It used to drive Gina insane. Oh, God, make sure you get Mary Margaret to talk about her musical tendencies to Gina at some point.”   
  
“Sounds potentially dramatic. I’m totally in.”   
  
Killian grinned at her, eyes just a _shade_ bluer and still staring at Emma or maybe through Emma and Ruby made some kind of disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “You know, Swan, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”   
  
Emma mumbled something that might have been words or maybe laughed again and she swore she could feel the heat just radiating off of him even through the jacket – hers and his and Ruby had started tapping her foot at some point, muttering excuses to someone who might have explained the clomping steps before.

“Ruby’s going to kill me,” Emma sighed, and she didn’t think she imagined Killian’s arm tightening. “You know, we’re a very violent group, by the way. All of us threatening to kill each other. Seems almost insensitive all things considered doesn’t it?”  
  
“Maybe a little bit,” Killian admitted, but he didn’t sound particularly insulted and Emma had never wanted to play a video game tournament less in her life.

And she hadn’t really wanted to play this one much to begin with, fairly certain they were pawns in some kind of crime spree and the rest of her story seemed to, suddenly, hang over her head, like that was threatening to murder her too or, maybe, just murder her happiness or something equally melodramatic.

Damn.

He’d gotten very good at reading her face in the last few months – and something in the back of her mind was quick to point out that he’d been _exceptional_ at that from the get-go and that probably meant something, but the rest of her mind had jumped out of joy and straight into worry and the distinct lack of kissing left plenty of room for over-analysis and what might have been the beginnings of a complete freakout.

And Killian noticed. Immediately.

Damn.

“Emma,” he said softly, pulling his hand up to brush his thumb across her chin and just underneath her lip and that was cheating too.

She resisted the urge to tug on the ring around her neck, not sure when _that_ became a thing, but it seemed to happen as soon as she put it on and as quickly as Killian had learned how to read her and maybe both of those things were signs too.

She wanted to start shouting sentiment at him again, certain that if she just kept repeating things, it would all settle into place and maybe she could _settle_ and there was that word again. Emma couldn’t control anything her body was doing, a twist of organs and limbs and a fight or flight instinct that was, somehow, pulling her in both directions at once.

“We’re fine, Swan,” he added, smile just a bit softer. “It’s going to be fine.”  
  
Emma nodded, swallowing down the butterflies and the words and Ruby seemed to take that as her cue, marching towards them with a glare on her face that probably would have killed all the butterflies. And several other emotion-based insects.

“So, uh, that was kind of a show then, huh?” Ruby asked, clearly trying not to laugh, but maybe trying to accuse and Emma rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You guys just kinda..turned around and jumped each other. I think you permanently scarred Humbert.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Emma stuttered. Graham made a noise a few feet behind Ruby, waving in one, long motion with half a smile on his face and something that looked like _vaguely entertained_ on his face. “And c’mon, Rubes, that’s not even your most threatening face.”

“He doesn’t look scared, Lucas,” Will said, appearing out of nowhere with his camera in his hand and his own smile. His eyes widened when they flickered towards Emma, gaze dropping down to the ring that was still hanging in front of her t-shirt. “Whoa,” he breathed, and Ruby was going to do permanent damage to her throat if she just kept growling at them. “Hook…”  
  
Killian shook his head. “Not a word, Scarlet.”   
  
Will opened his mouth, but Killian looked like he was about to make good on his promise of premeditated murder and Graham shuffled towards them, hands stuffed in his pockets and expression turned just a bit cautious like he realized he’d just walked into some kind of family argument.

“Hey, uh,” he started, rocking back on his heels when four heads snapped towards him. “So you guys want to play video games or what’s the plan here?”  
  
“I mean obviously we’re going to play,” Emma sighed.

“Yeah, see, strangely enough I’m not getting that vibe.”  
  
“Don’t be an ass, Humbert.”   
  
He grinned at her, moving his eyebrows quickly and Emma tried to sigh again, with as much drama as she could muster. “Would I do that, Em?” he asked, laughing when she actually stuck her tongue out at him. “Anyway, I figured I’d come over here and just double check. And maybe meet the boyfriend.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Em, it wasn’t like you were doing a very good job of keeping it secret. Even in Philadelphia. Everyone has known for months.”   
  
Her stomach moved into her throat with the butterflies and it was a disgusting thought and a disgusting picture and Emma’s head snapped up towards the balcony, eyes scanning for the team she knew was watching.

Neal was leaning against the railing, a look Emma couldn’t quite make out on his face and maybe she should get her contact prescription checked out. She was going crazy.

Shit. And fuck. And...some other synonym.

Ruby’s glare wasn’t quite as sharp when she looked at Emma again, eyes dropping down to the ring and Will nodded, answering a question that no one had actually asked. Graham looked confused. Or just uncomfortable.

“So, uh,” he stammered, and the announcer was yelling at all of them now for _delaying the tournament_ and Anna might have started cackling from the table. “I’m Graham. Humbert. I’ve known Emma for years.”   
  
Killian moved his hand away from Emma’s back to hold it out in front of him and this was weird. She wondered if they could get fined by the league for whatever delay they were inciting. “Killian Jones,” he said.

“Pleasure. And, just for the record or whatever, I’m not actually permanently scarred by what you guys were doing.”  
  
“Good to know.”   
  
Graham smiled, like that wasn’t the most absurd thing anyone had ever said and Emma tried not to sigh again. It wasn’t easy.

“Oh my God, this is painful,” Ruby groaned. “Humbert, stand down. It’s fine. Everything is fine and good and all of that. Are we going to play or nah? Because I really kind of want to destroy Humbert for being so goddamn awkward right now.”  
  
Emma laughed despite the tension she could still feel lingering in between her shoulder blades and she also kind of wanted to destroy Humbert if only to prove that her current video game career wasn’t just being used a pawn in some other person’s plan. And she was actually really good at Genji.

“Lucas, you just made it weird,” Graham accused, but the glare was back on Ruby’s face and no one was brave enough to argue with that. “Fine, fine. Killian, it was nice to meet you. Em, I am not scarred, but there might be other people in this building who are or could be. So, you know, keep that in mind going forward.”  
  
She tilted her head, certain she heard the _warning_ in the words, but maybe that was just her mind running away with itself again. “That was heavy-handed, Humbert,” Emma muttered.

He shrugged. “A suggestion.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
The game announcer yelled something again – _If all athletes are not in their seats within the next fifteen minutes then both teams will be forced to forfeit the round and it will become a winner-takes-all battle_. Ruby scoffed and Emma wished the floor would just open up and swallow her down or, maybe, she could just drown in metaphorical butterflies.

“We could totally beat you in a one-game round thing’ama’bob,” Ruby announced, knocking her fist on Graham’s shoulder like she was daring him to argue.

He didn’t. “No, I’m sure you could. In a normal situation.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
Emma stood up, pushing her back into Killian’s hand and she could feel his quick intake of breath. “Graham,” she said slowly. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“Nothing, nothing,” he muttered, but it sounded like the lie it absolutely was and he couldn't even look her in the eye. “Listen, come on, if we throw off the whole schedule, I’m fairly positive Zelena will cast some kind of spell on us or something.”   
  
“She does kind of paint that picture, doesn’t she?” Will asked.

Graham shrugged and Emma need to sit down. Her legs weren’t doing their biologically-dictated job very well, even when she was still holding onto Killian as tightly as she could and, at some point, his left hand had started tracing up her spine.

“Alright, alright,” she yelled, ignoring Will’s grin when she tugged lightly on the ring. Her ring? Maybe. She hadn’t quite decided on those qualifiers yet. “Humbert, we’re totally going to beat you in two and then you can explain to me why you just lied to my face.”  
  
“Em, I didn’t…”   
  
“Yeah, you’re very bad at it. Ten-hut or whatever. Back to the troops.”   
  
Ruby snorted, mouth twitching at the marching orders and she nodded solemnly before actually saluting Emma in response. “C’mon Scarlet,” she said, tugging on the edge of his sleeve when he didn’t immediately respond. “Let’s go make you can get good angles or something.”   
  
“Lighting, Lucas,” Will argued. “Photography is about lighting.”   
  
“Eh, we’ll argue that after we wreck, ok?”

She didn’t give him a chance to agree – or disagree – yanking on his sleeve and nodding towards Graham, leaving Emma and Killian, relatively, alone in the middle of the main floor at the Playstation Theatre.

Emma bit her lip – nervous and hopeful and full of decidedly _not-Emma_ feelings and she pressed her heels into the ground so she wouldn’t try and start making out with Killian again. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her jaw seemed to snap closed when she noticed the look on Killian’s face.

“Did we use spectacular yet?” he asked, and Emma felt her answering smile immediately.

“I don’t think so.”  
  
“Spectacular then. Add that to the list of reactionary synonyms.”   
  
“Ah, see, now you’re just talking fancy. It’s like you’re trying to show off with that college degree or something.”   
  
“Is it impressive, Swan?”   
  
“I think you’re fishing for compliments, counselor.”   
  
He grinned, eyebrows twisting and none of it was playing fair. It was some kind of miracle she hadn’t screamed every thought she’d ever had at him as soon as they walked into his apartment two nights before.

It was because she kept falling asleep as soon as she walked into his apartment.

Like she could. And it was easy. And comfortable. And he wanted her there.

He wanted her.

He thought they were going to win. No matter what.

“No,” Killian promised, thumb back against her lip and Emma sighed for a totally different reason. “I’m just glad I’m here, Swan.”  
  
She wasn’t totally ready for that. It, somehow, felt bigger than declarations and relationship qualifiers and even showing up at the hospital on Christmas. It felt like some kind of _forever_ type of thing and fight or flight seemed to disappear quickly and easily and Emma was, maybe for the first time ever, glad to be exactly where she was.

“You can’t just say things like that,” she mumbled.

“Swan, I think we’ve kind of jumped past conversational rules at this point, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’s probably true.”  
  
“So then that gives me free reign to start announcing all kinds of vaguely romantic things, I think.”

Emma narrowed her eyes slightly, certain he could feel her heartbeat pick up when he moved his eyebrows again. “And just how many vaguely romantic things have you been thinking this entire time?”  
  
“Enough that I’ve forgotten and ignored every single journalism ethic I’ve ever learned.”   
  
“What a mess.”   
  
“No, love, the opposite of that,” Killian countered. “The only thing that’s made any sense at all since I got back home.”

She wasn’t sure if he even realized it – the way the word just seemed to hang there in between them and he didn’t blink when he said it, _home_ , like he’d been thinking it forever and maybe she’d been hoping it forever and _settling_ suddenly seemed like a certainty instead of a possibility.

Her heart was never going to slow down.

“That was romantic too,” Emma said, and Killian hummed, kissing her as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

“It’s a gift, Swan, really.”  
  
“I really have to go play video games.”   
  
“You did fifteen minutes ago. I’m trying not to take your inability to move as some kind of compliment.”   
  
“I don’t think we need to pad that romance ego anymore.”   
  
“That seems to be suggesting I’m still fishing for compliments, love. Trust me, this is all just part of the plan.”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows jumped, but Killian seemed to have meant _that_ and she wondered how likely it was she was actually going into cardiac arrest. “Ethically ambiguous and a very bad idea with certain witnesses nearby.”   
  
“Go play, Swan,” he laughed softly. “We can talk about ethics after you wreck.”   
  
“You’re really not worried though? Honestly? Because Graham was being super weird right now and it’s not like him to be all overprotective, not that he’s had much reason to, but even so that was...plus Neal and Second Star and, I mean, we did kind of put on a show.”   
  
He smiled. He actually smiled, staring at her with some kind of full-fledged emotion that, Emma suddenly realized, was _definitely_ love.

He’d said it back.

He loved her back.

And he was home.

“Emma,” Killian said softly, somehow taking a step closer to her and she couldn’t think straight when he stopped using nicknames. That was a strange change of pace. “There are plenty of things I am worried about, but the last thing I am worried about, maybe the only thing I’m _not_ worried about, is you. And us. On some kind of consistent, indefinite basis.”   
  
“Indefinite?”   
  
“Rumor has it that’s how these things are supposed to work.”   
  
“Ok,” she breathed, not sure if that was the right response, but words weren’t really her thing and if she said anything else she might just yell that she loved him again. “What happens next, right?”   
  
Killian nodded. “No matter what.”   
  
They lost the first round. And Emma tried not to be too frustrated by that – particularly when she _knew_ she’d timed her jump perfectly, but the stupid, virtual bridge was fortified and she couldn’t figure out how Humbert and his team had managed that so quickly.

“How did that even happen?” Emma mumbled, glancing at Elsa like she’d just be able to answer the question. She couldn’t. Because it didn’t make any sense.

“I don’t know,” Elsa shrugged. She glanced over her shoulder, back up towards the balcony and Emma followed her gaze, landing on a noticeably absent Second Star near the railing. “Where do you think they went?”  
  
“Beats me. Ah, shit, you think they’re streaming again?”   
  
Elsa groaned, rolling her head between her shoulders and it might have been an agreement or just generic disappointment. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Well, that kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”   
  
“To put it lightly.”   
  
Emma sank further into her chair, squeezing her eyes closed and letting her hair drape over the back. Attack. Primary fire. Secondary fire. A perfect goddamn jump.

She’d timed it perfectly.

“Oh fucking shit,” she mumbled, nearly jumping up and Elsa gaped at her. “How hard do you think it would be to actually cheat at this game?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Cheat. Like. Do you think a team could plan an attack perfectly, knowing exactly what they’re going to be playing before it gets announced and they’ve figured out exactly how we’re going to approach if we don’t know what we’re playing?”   
  
“You are talking in riddles.”   
  
“No, I’m not,” Emma sighed, nearly choking herself with her own ring. She didn’t even stumble over the qualifier that time. “Damn. He’s got the whole, stupid league under his thumb.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“Where did Killian go?”

Elsa blinked twice, staring at Emma like she’d lost her mind and that might actually be true, but she needed to test her theory out on someone and, somehow, she knew Killian might believe her. So, naturally, the goddamn announcer decided to start the next round and Emma could only hope that steam didn’t actually funnel its way out of her ears.

She slammed her headset back over her ears, wincing at her own self-inflicted pain, and Elsa was still staring at her, likely worried Emma was going to break the keyboard in front of her when she started banging on controls.

“Em,” Elsa started cautiously, but she just brushed her off and stared at the screen like that had, somehow, offended her too.

“They’re back on the bridge,” Emma announced, and she could hear Ruby’s groan from the other end of the row.   
  
“We’re not blind, Em,” she sighed. “God damn it, Humbert, get your fucking Reinhardt out of here. No one wants to contend with that.”   
  
Graham chuckled into his headset and Emma tried not to actually snap her keyboard over her knee. She needed to get onto the bridge. She _could_ get on the bridge. It was half a moment, but it felt like some kind of video-game eternity and Emma was almost as stunned at Graham messing up _that badly_ as she was that she hadn’t already broken all of her equipment.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered. _Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire._ “Anna, go, now! Now! Now! Now!”

“Oh, damn, yeah, yeah, I’m going, I’m going,” Anna said, half standing up in her chair and she was behind the defenses in a few seconds, jumping up and down as she clicked on her keyboard.

She dropped her teleporter and Emma didn’t even cringe at the immediate catchphrase – _Teleporter online. I have opened the path_ – she just kept directing her team and half of Graham’s squad was too stunned to even realize that they’d just been absolutely wrecked.

“Emma! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot,” Ruby screamed, waving a hand over her head like that wasn’t exactly what Emma was doing already.

“I’ve got it. They’ve got a Bastion there. Belle, it’s weak on the back side. Shoot it. Kill it! Kill the fucker! C’mon, Humbert, that’s lame!”

Graham mumbled something and they’d taken the battering ram and reclaimed the virtual remains of whatever _thing_ they were trying to save on this particular map and that felt a bit like a call back to all that murder talk from before, but it didn’t really matter because they’d won.

Emma let out a _whoop_ , leaping out of her seat and knocking it over and Ruby was firing off a string of curses that absolutely would draw complaints on the live-stream, actually pointing at Graham while Elsa grabbed the payload.

They won.

And Star Horn Royal Club, in all its absolutely ridiculous name glory, looked stunned.

They looked even worse nearly an hour later – when they were, officially, eliminated from tournament contention and the very large, very vocal crowd in the Playstation Theatre seemed to actually explode as soon as it realized Widow’s Wail was moving on to the next round.

Emma might have actually fist pumped and if she weren’t so goddamn excited, she probably would have been embarrassed, but Anna already had her phone out and Will was taking pictures and she scanned the crowd immediately to try and find Killian.

He found her.

And there was probably something to that, but she’d started moving before she could even consider it, crossing space quickly and ignoring more camera shutters and, well, there was something to be said for an encore.

He didn’t stumble when Emma all but launched herself at him, his quiet laugh working its way into her bloodstream or something just a little less clinical and Killian wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her back up onto her toes.

He kissed her.

Or she kissed him.

Or whatever. Emma wasn’t convinced gravity had actually righted itself yet, so she wasn’t going to concern herself with the specifics.

“Completely wrecked, Swan,” Killian said, the smile obvious in his voice. “And I even noticed how well you timed that jump, so everyone else here was, obviously, impressed.”  
  
“Oh, obviously.”   
  
“They were taking video. Like it’s the twenty-first century or something. Zelena will probably try and shut them down.”   
  
Emma widened her eyes, her laugh just a bit manic and Killian just kept smiling at her, like they could just joke about any of this. Like this was normal. Like they were normal. Maybe they could be for, like, five minutes.

“Nah, that’s promo for the league,” Emma argued. “Even if what I think is happening is happening, they need that fan support. That might be the only part he can’t actually control.”  
  
“You’ve lost me.”   
  
She took a deep breath and she was going to tell him. She was. She was going to have another wholly out-of-place, entirely too emotional conversation right there in the Playstation Theatre, but she had to go take photos and smile for the league live stream and act like they didn’t, somehow, just beat a team that was, probably, supposed to absolutely destroy them.

“Go, Swan,” Killian said, squeezing her hip slightly and doing that _thing_ with his eyebrows. “I’ll be here. With a recorder and questions.”   
  
“A reporting menace.”   
  
“I’m just doing my job, love. Go do yours.”   
  
“You know that was kind of aggressive.”   
  
He definitely kissed her that time and it was the opposite of aggressive and Emma nearly started talking again, but then Killian pulled back and smiled at her like she was the center of the goddamn universe and she actually sprinted back towards the table.

It took, by Emma’s count, forty-seven minutes to get through the photos and the live-stream requirements and Zelena’s begrudging explanation of what happened in the next round – a month and a half from now and they’d probably play Miraculous Youngsters and that was August Booth’s team.

“Jeez, just hitting all the high points, huh?” Ruby asked, forty-eight minutes later, weighed down by a stack of papers and her own frustration.

“Please don’t act like this is somehow personally offending you,” Emma sighed. “You’re not the one dealing with your video-game past every time we sit down.”  
  
“Ah, I made out with Humbert that one time when we were playing...what was it?”   
  
“League of Legends.”   
  
“Man, that was a weird time.”   
  
Emma chuckled, shifting her own stack of papers to rest on her waist and Anna’s phone kept _dinging_ , more followers and comments and congratulations. “Hey, did you see where Second Star went after we lost the first round?”   
  
“What?” Ruby asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Why would I be paying attention to them?”   
  
“I mean, aside from the obvious?”   
  
“Consider me clueless, what’s the obvious?”   
  
Emma winced, pulling air in through her teeth and Ruby actually looked concerned. “Come here, come here,” she said, nodding towards a corner that, almost, looked empty.

“God, relax, you’re worse than Mary Margaret and her suplexes out of nowhere,” Ruby grumbled. “What’s your damage?”  
  
“You're the most frustrating person in the world.”   
  
“And you’re beating around something. Spit it out.”   
  
Emma glanced over her shoulder, trying to make sure they were alone or, at least, out of range of Anna’s phone. “I am, like, ninety-nine percent positive that Neal is running lines again and I think he’s doing it to win the money for Gold because I think Gold is trying to get back to New Orleans and reset all that drug stuff because I think Gold was the boss Killian couldn’t find.”

Ruby’s eyes were going to fall out of her head, roll onto the ground, straight into Times Square and then, possibly, just explode.

Emma grimaced.

“But, you know, only, like ninety-nine because I can’t actually confirm any of this and all we know is Wesselton was trying to get stuff out of the city and then promptly disappeared,” Emma mumbled. Ruby gaped at her. “Oh, did you not know that part?”  
  
“No because I’m not married to your brother and not dating your reporter, so I am sitting on the outside looking in here of our little crime spree.”   
  
“I mean, we’re not the ones committing crimes.”   
  
“Did you tell Killian?”   
  
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”   
  
Ruby’s eyes narrowed and it was a quick and sudden contrast, leaving Emma just a bit breathless. She could feel the headache blooming in between her eyes. “I just...this is really good,” Emma sighed, tugging on her ring again and Ruby was probably going to do permanent damage to her retinas. “Like. Good good. And if I say something now about the betting, he’s…”   
  
“Going to be as painfully in love with you as ever?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Maybe.”   
  
“You said you were only ninety-nine percent sure. What would get it a hundred?”   
  
“Maybe I could help with that,” Graham said, a nervous smile on his face when Emma spun around. He was standing next to Killian. Emma’s heart dropped. “It should probably be at one hundred. Although I don’t know anything about that Gold guy.”   
  
Emma’s eyes darted towards Killian and she was going to choke herself with her own chain two days after she put it on. “He’s Second Star’s sponsor,” she said gruffly, words suddenly a very distinct type of challenge.

“Ah, yeah, yeah, I remember hearing that now. All that money. Seems kind of out of place for Neal, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “He’s really running then? How? And where do you come in?”

“Off the record?”

“Obviously,” Killian muttered, taking a step towards Emma and prying her fingers away from her ring. There were tiny, crescent-shaped marks on her palm.

Graham hummed. “They wanted you to win at first. That was the plan a couple weeks ago when Neal first told me. And we said no, because, well, you’re you, Em and we weren’t going to fuck you over. But Neal was...insistent. He said you guys needed to keep winning and we’d get a good cut if we could make sure that you did. He’s got a whole site set up again.”  
  
“Again?” Killian asked, the arm around Emma’s shoulder stiffening. “What do you mean again?”   
  
Ruby groaned, or maybe sighed, teeth sinking into her lower lip when her eyes fell closed and Emma’s heart was well on its way to the center of the Earth where it would probably just burst into flames. That might have been more comfortable than this conversation.

“Off the record?” Emma repeated.

Killian tilted his head slightly, disbelief rolling off him in waves. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Off the record.”

“That’s how I got out of Portland,” she explained. “Neal, well, it was his idea. We’d throw games or help throw games so we could win games. There’s a whole betting angle to these leagues that you’re missing, counselor.”  
  
And, apparently, she could make bad jokes too.

“That so?” Killian asked, but the question lacked the bitterness Emma expected. Her heart stayed in tact.

“Yeah, it’s, uh, super dramatic. And Neal was really, really good at it. He knew everyone, had a whole slate of dedicated degenerates who were willing to fork over thousands of dollars on a game of Halo and if he could control it, then he could make money on it.”  
  
“Aren’t there people monitoring that?”   
  
“I mean the police exist,” Emma shrugged. “But they’ve got plenty of other things to worry about than video game gambling rings. Like, you know, actual sport gambling rings.”   
  
“I take offense to the idea that we are not playing a sport,” Ruby muttered. “They called us athletes before.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but Killian didn’t look away from her. “So this is what you guys did before? With Neal and Jefferson. That’s what Helm was doing before he got to New Orleans?”  
  
“I have no idea how Jeff got to New Orleans,” she said quickly. “Or how Neal got together with Gold. Or why Gold would be interested in running lines when he’s, you know…”   
  
“Possibly in control of a crime empire in New Orleans and New York?” Ruby supplied.

“What, what?” Graham yelled, but all three of them just waved a hand and he mumbled a string of curses under his breath.

Killian didn’t say anything and Emma could almost see him trying to write it all out in his mind. “You want me to go get a piece of poster board or something?” she asked softly, and he scoffed.

“No, I think I’m fine, Swan. Neal’s got to be connected to Gold someway, right? Before all of this. Unless you think he’s just going off the cuff?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “No, no, Neal’s not that creative. He started this whole betting thing, but if he’s got Gold and his actual mountains of coins, then there’s no reason for him to branch out. He can just play and mooch and be Huey or something.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”

“You know, like, Heuy, Dewey and Louie?” Killian shook his head, while Graham and Ruby tried not to laugh too loudly. “Honestly, I do not understand your pop culture knowledge. How do you not know what that is?”  
  
“You only get bits and pieces of pop culture when you’re spending most of the last decade and a half wandering around the country, Swan. And we didn’t have cable.”   
  
She laughed, incredulous and maybe falling just a little bit more in love with him right there in the corner of the Playstation Theatre. Again. Symmetrical.

“More focus, less flirting,” Ruby growled. “Humbert, you said Neal told you that he wanted us to win, what changed?”  
  
“Ah, see, that’s where it gets weird,” Graham said, ignoring Emma’s not-so-quiet outburst at the idea that this could get even _weirder_.   
“So, like I said, a couple weeks ago, he tells me he’s going to put us on attack and he needs you guys to win. But then, a few days before Christmas, he finds me again and says, no, the plan’s changed, and we’re going to defend and you guys need to lose. No matter what.”  
  
“No matter what?” Emma asked, mouth suddenly dry and the lack of gravity on Broadway was making her headache worse. “Why?”   
  
“He said, and this paraphrasing a bit, he wanted you guys out. That it was...too much now.”   
  
“Too much?”   
  
“I’m just the messenger, Em.”   
  
It hit her suddenly and Killian’s hand found hers as soon as he realized. “He knows,” Emma mumbled, not sure who she was actually talking to. “Neal knows that we know. He knows that David is investigating Hans and Wesselton disappeared. He’s trying to force us out.”   
  
“Well, fuck,” Ruby breathed.

“Yeah, exactly that. But, we won. I mean, we won the game. We got another ton of paperwork. Graham, how did we win?”  
  
He rolled his eyes at her. “Em, come on, give me a little bit of credit here. You think I’m going to agree to anything Cassidy offers me when I know what kind of an asshole he is? Plus, you're ridiculously good at the game.”   
  
She should probably work on her tendency to just launch herself at people, but it had been an unpredictable kind of day and Neal knew exactly what they were doing, so Emma found herself jumping towards Graham Humbert before she really even considered it – or let go of Killian’s hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered.   
  
“He’s an ass, Em. He’s always been an ass and he’s absolutely fucking with this entire league. It’s video games, but, you know, there should be some honor in it.”   
  
“Even amongst thieves.”   
  
“You guys played really well,” Graham continued. “You deserved to win and you deserve to win when you play Booth too. Cassidy’s going to try and get him to agree to those lines too, you know. He’ll probably try and control the time of the matches or something.”   
  
“That’s a popular bet.”   
  
Graham nodded, taking a deep breath and a step away from Emma and she wasn’t entirely ready for the serious expression on his face. “You’ve got to be careful, Em,” he said. “This is...well I have no idea what it is, but you guys seem to and Neal is pissed. And scared. Visibly scared. I don’t know of what or who, but he was terrified you guys were going to challenge.”   
  
“Yeah, well, he can fuck off,” Emma hissed, not sure when she’d just landed directly in the middle of furious, but her brother was in the hospital and they didn’t have a sponsor and she still wasn’t entirely convinced they could win, but Killian loved her back and her team was close to phenomenal, so she was willing to embrace it.

“Exactly,” Ruby grinned. “You get lots of bonus points for this Humbert, just, like, free onion rings for the rest of your life.”  
  
“Generous.”   
  
“Don’t waste this gift.”   
  
“Hey,” Anna called, jumping up and using Will as leverage to make sure they could see her. “Can we go eat now? We’re starving!”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

They stayed at Granny’s for the rest of the afternoon and Emma did, eventually, go on the record, tucked into a corner booth with a questionable amount of alcohol and onion rings and her legs draped over Killian’s.

And she wobbled slightly when he hailed a cab, one arm wrapped around her waist when he threw his hand over the side of the curb. “C’mon, love,” he muttered, pressing his lips against her hair and she stopped wobbling after that.

Killian didn’t ask if she was going to come home with him and Emma didn’t tell him that she was, it just kind of happened, like that was the plan and she hoped it was the plan. The security guard nodded as they moved through the lobby, a smile and a mumbled _good night_ and it all felt so goddamn domestic, Emma couldn't quite believe it was real.

They seemed to move in slow motion as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them and that felt a bit like déjà vu, but not – memories and want and _love_ , mixing all together until Emma found herself pressed up against the wall and Killian’s hand underneath her thigh and her breath hitched when his lips found her neck.

“God, I’ve been waiting to do that for hours,” he muttered, and Emma laughed before she could stop herself, the sound bouncing off the walls when Killian pulled back to gape at her. “Is that funny?”  
  
“You’ve been trying to attack my neck for hours?”   
  
“I’d maybe use a different word than attack.”   
  
“That so? Feel free to impress me with your vast and detailed vocabulary then.”   
  
He smirked at her, the look inching across his face until it somehow worked into his gaze as well and the elevator doors opened before Emma was entirely ready for it. She had no idea how they made it down the hallway, Killian directing her backwards towards his apartment while he tried to mark every single inch of available skin with his mouth.

“Caress,” he muttered, tugging his keys out of his pocket and twisting Emma around until her back was flush with his chest so he could try and unlock the door around her. “Touch. Embrace. Nuzzle.”

“Nuzzle,” Emma laughed again, letting her head fall back on his shoulder and his hand rested on her stomach. “That is a terrible word.”

“Distract me then.”  
  
“Open the door then.”   
  
He did and she did and the door, somehow, closed behind them when Emma started tugging on his belt and Killian toed out of his shoes and they both left their jackets on the floor. She smiled when she fell back against the mattress, hair splayed out across half a dozen pillows and a questionable number of blankets, but that might have simply been because Killian kept staring at her.

“You’ve stopped talking,” Emma accused, fingers trailing over his stomach when they worked their way underneath his shirt.

She appreciated his quiet gasp more than she thought she would, some kind of control she hadn’t realized she’d been looking for until she got it, and Killian’s eyes flickered towards the ring hanging over her own shirt.

“You’re a very good distraction, Swan.”

“That almost doesn’t seem like a compliment.”  
  
“I promise it was,” he said, pushing lightly on her shoulder to move her back and following her when her head dropped back on the pillows. “I’m so glad you’re here, Emma.”   
  
Her heart had done a lot of ridiculous things over the last few hours, but that might have been the most absurd, expanding and contracting and speeding up and slowing down and Emma nearly jumped on him again.

It was easier on a bed.

They got rid of the shirts eventually – and the rest of the clothes as well, thrown haphazardly across the room – and Emma was somewhere on the edge of sleep, burrowed against pillows and blankets and the never-ending warmth of Killian’s arm, when he mumbled something she couldn’t quite understand.   
  
“What?” she asked, blinking blearily and flipping around to find him wide awake. He was still staring at her like...everything. She didn’t know enough words.

“I didn’t want to come home,” Killian said, like that made any sense. “I..this was the last place I ever wanted to be again. I wanted to be anywhere except New York, but there wasn’t really another choice and I needed a job and I agreed. Mostly to get Gina off my back, but maybe to make some money too.

I figured it’d be a job and a byline, but I am...so ridiculously in love with you. I’m happy. With you. So, whatever happens next, Swan. I’m here. No matter what or who shows up, on the record or off the record. You’re it, Emma. Everything I was fairly positive I wasn’t allowed to have. It’s you and I’m...I’m glad I’m home.”  
  
She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if she was breathing. Or dreaming. Maybe she’d fallen asleep already.

She hoped not.

“I love you too,” Emma said, easier that time and softer and she meant it. Completely. Indefinitely. That had never happened before. “And I’m happy too.”

And, maybe, she was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in love. They're fighting crime. They're investigating. They're (eventually) going to share all their deep, dark secrets. 
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	25. Chapter 25

“Ariel, you’ve got to stop breaking into my office.”  
  
Killian kicked the door closed behind him, leveling Ariel with a very specific type of stare – or at least he tried. He was fairly positive it didn’t work when she ignored him completely, gaze tracing across the pile of papers she had clutched in her hands.

She was laying on the floor again, hair splayed out underneath her until it almost looked like the carpet and one leg hitched up over her knee. Her laptop was next to her, a printer Killian didn’t know they actually had a few feet away and what, at first glance, appeared to be several dozen stacks of papers.

“What are you even doing?” he continued, dropping into the corner of the couch. There were too many stacks of papers to try and navigate getting to his desk.

Silence.

Well, relative silence. Ariel’s laptop did something – dinging or donging and there was a progress bar in the corner of the screen like she was downloading something she probably wasn’t supposed to be.

Killian tried to hold his breath or ignore the frustration he could feel simmering just below the surface of his skin, fingers tapping impatiently on his arm. He sighed when it didn’t work, rolling his head onto the back of the couch and sliding out of his jacket.

The frustration was an almost foreign emotion now – something that felt like _domestic perfection_ settling over every corner of his life in the last month.

They’d celebrated New Year’s in the hospital, Regina, once again, using that stare down to work the whole lot of them into the room for midnight with more against-the-rules champagne and paper hats that didn’t really stay on anyone’s head once they started putting a dent in the champagne.

David grumbled about that until, at least, ten minutes after the ball dropped uptown and then he, promptly, fell asleep. Ruby took photos.

Anna put pictures on Instagram.

She got eighty more followers in the next five minutes.

And Emma went home with him. Again. Consistently. She hung up her pile of clothes and had her own section of the questionably small closet space his apartment allotted and there were hair ties everywhere.

He couldn’t figure out how one person could own so many hair ties and, somehow, manage to lose every single one of them.

He didn’t care.

He loved her and kept telling her that and she’d smile, shoulders dropping just a bit like some of that weight she was carrying disappeared for half a moment and her eyes would get just a bit greener, like the leaves in Central Park when the snow finally started to melt and it was, easily, the most absurd thing Killian had ever thought, but he couldn’t really think about anything when Emma muttered _I love you, too_ and then tried to pull her hair up only to find that she’d lost her hair tie.

Again.

He could probably carpet his apartment with her hair ties.

Except there hadn’t been any new hair ties in the last three days because Emma hadn’t come home in the last three days – back on Mary Margaret’s couch or possibly on a reinflated air mattress when David was finally discharged from the hospital.

He actually tried to walk out of the hospital, both Emma and Mary Margaret going white as a sheet when David pushed himself out of the wheelchair. He’d just rolled his eyes and mumbled something about _not being an invalid_ , but he had also gone a shade paler than usual and Killian could feel Emma’s breathing pick up when she leaned against his side.

They’d let him play MarioKart the night before, Ruby promising she’d _give David a head start_ and _won’t hit you with any shells_ and he’d glared at her from the corner of the couch he probably wasn’t supposed to be sitting in.

He’d refused to get back into another bed.

And Killian didn’t feel entirely out of place with a controller in his hands and Emma’s legs draped over his, her head on his shoulder while she absolutely destroyed all of them in MarioKart. Mary Margaret gave him leftovers.

She was some kind of miracle worker, Killian was convinced.

He sighed softly, running a hand over his face and trying to ignore the lingering frustration from Ariel’s continued silence and just how tired he’d been in the last three days. Selfish asshole.

He was not very good at sleeping alone anymore.

The printer whirred to life again and Ariel’s eyes flickered toward it, mouth twitching when it didn’t move fast enough for her. She tried to kick it, but her legs weren’t that long and she was only just balanced on her tailbone, wobbling slightly like a red-haired turtle.

Killian didn’t say that out loud.

“Should I change my locks?” he asked instead, shifting to pull his phone out of his back pocket when it started buzzing.

**David has already started complaining about the state of the coffee that I am making. As if I don’t know how to make coffee. As if I don’t know how to make coffee eight-thousand times better than him.**

_Tell him that. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. As an aside is he supposed to be drinking coffee?_

**No, of course not. A fact that I’ve told him, at least, fifty-seven times. He drinks water and whatever the doctors gave him.**

_That’s probably not as good as coffee._

**He got shot!**

_I don’t think that was the coffee’s fault, Swan._

**You are taking his side and I’m not sure I’m into that. I already let him beat me at Rainbow Road, I can’t give on the coffee thing too. Mary Margaret will never talk to me again.**

Killian chuckled, drawing a glance from Ariel, but she didn’t actually put the papers down and the printer was still making a ridiculous amount of noise. “Shouldn’t those be silent by now?” he asked. “It’s the future, right?”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Ariel said, finally answering him. “And it’s been doing a lot of work today. It’s kind of huffing and puffing, so to speak.”   
  
“I don’t think a printer should be doing that either.”   
  
Ariel grinned, trying to kick at it again. Her shoe flew off and left a mark on his wall. “Jeez, A, c’mon. Gina will kill me if we fuck up the office. Cora’ll probably just kick us out if she sees scuff marks.”   
  
She pulled the papers away from her face, turning her head to stare at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me? You’re making jokes now? About Cora?”   
  
“I guess,” Killian shrugged, eyes darting back down when his phone buzzed again.

**David just asked if you wanted to come over for dinner again. I think he’s got a crush.**

Killian’s lungs did something absurd, but he could feel himself smiling and he was so goddamn happy – even without the influx of hair ties in the last three days – that he was willing to overlook the possibly smoking printer in the corner of his office.

Or whatever Ariel was doing with her face, staring at him like he’d been replaced with a cyborg copy of himself. There were far too many piles of paper in his office.

Something was going on.

God _fucking_ damnit.

They’d been decidedly ignoring _that_ as well – far too preoccupied with that domestic perfection and his kitchen wasn’t very big, but he had an oven and cabinets and there was a supermarket up the block.

They weren’t quite at Mary Margaret levels of cooking and baking, but both Emma and Killian had spent enough time on their own to know how to feed themselves and cooking together was more fun than he realized it could be.

It became some kind of unspoken challenge – finding the most ridiculous recipes they could and shopping together and his hand always seemed to find her back when they walked through aisles. Emma had a tendency to just spread out across every inch of counter space when they cooked her recipes, flour streaked across her face and her arms and, one time, they’d tried something with saffron and the tips of her fingers had been stained red for the rest of the night.

_Domestic perfection_.

No video games or crime bosses or ex-boyfriends running betting websites that didn’t match up with drug rings or disappearing shipping CEOs and the story after the second round hit three-hundred and fifty in seventy-two hours.

It was fine.

The piles of paper and Ariel’s break-in meant absolutely nothing. They were ignoring it. They were cooking.

He had a dinner to get to in Turtle Bay.

“You just going to totally ignore your phone or you going to keep daydreaming?” Ariel asked sharply, pulling Killian back to reality.

“What?”  
  
“Your phone,” she said, nodding towards his hand. “Is going to explode.”   
  
**I mean, I wasn’t actually suggesting that David wanted to date you. Although the dinner invitation really is open. From me. The person you have mentioned you do want to date. We should probably do more of that.**

_What if we did that instead?_

**Did what instead?**

_Went on a date. Tonight. Like somewhere else. That isn’t your apartment._

**It’s not my apartment. Technically.**

_So let’s not go there. I’ll pick you up and everything. David can give an overprotective big brother speech._

**Oh my God, no, don’t let him do that.**

_Well, he wants to date me, so maybe he’ll let me off without the speech._

Killian waited for a response – sitting up straight until he felt like he was actually trying to push his feet into the ground and Ariel mirrored him, grabbing a pen he hadn’t noticed was stuck in her hair and scribbling across the brand-new stack of papers she had resting on her knee.

**I shouldn’t have ever introduced you two, now you’re going to start hanging out like that’s a thing. And what time?**

He grinned.

_Seven?_

**You really don’t have to pick me up. Ruby’s going to try and rope you into playing.**

_It’s because she knows I’m getting better. She’s threatened by my continued success._

**She is taking pity on you because you keep forgetting to use all your shells when you’re trying to make a move. She’s padding her stats.**

_In MarioKart?_

**Does it surprise you to realize that any of them keep their stats in MarioKart?**

_Not really, no. Seven, Swan. I’ll be the one you want to make out with in the hallway._

**I never said that.**

_Ah, but did you really have to?_

**Ass.**

**Yeah, ok, seven. Should I be wearing something specific? Or, you know, we could just go back home. We still haven’t tried that one recipe I found.**

Killian stood up before he realized his brain had sent that particular direction to his legs, eyes wide and gaping at his phone like it had just turned to gold. It felt heavy enough. He was positive she hadn’t meant it, had just typed the word without even realizing it, but it seemed to flash at him and maybe make some noise, just so he knew it was there.

Home.

She’d called it home. She’d called his apartment home. She’d called him home.

“Killian,” Ariel started, but he brushed her off quickly, digging his toe into the tiny bit of carpet that wasn’t covered with research he hadn’t done.

_Stop trying to back out of our date, Swan. Seven. Wear whatever you want. And we can go home later. If you want_.

It took, exactly, four deep breaths, six seconds and several erratic heartbeats for her to answer. And Ariel was still staring at Killian like he’d lost his mind.

**Yeah, I’d like that a lot.**

He stuffed his phone back in his pocket, trying to figure out what he could actually plan in less than twenty-four hours and nearly tripped over Ariel when he took a step forward.

“Jeez,” she grumbled, throwing her arm over her eyes dramatically. “Look where you’re going.” Killian stared at her, crossing his arms lightly and she didn’t even try to sit up. “If you step on my hair, I’m going to punch you in the shins.”  
  
“That’s not the colloquialism you were looking for. And have you considered not draping your hair across my floor? Or breaking into my office?”   
  
“I don’t have an office. I don’t even have a desk. They hired that new receptionist and she put out a candy bowl, so I can’t sit down there either.”   
  
“What does the candy bowl have to do with anything?”   
  
“She put out candy, Killian,” Ariel said, enunciating every word like that would somehow make more sense. “For free. This is a news website. It’s not a doctor’s office.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware there were rules about free candy on receptionist’s desk.”   
  
“Obviously. You going to take Emma somewhere nice?”   
  
“What?” Killian blinked. “Soothsayer.”   
  
“See, that’s just rude. You step on my hair and make passive aggressive comments about my printer and then you just start throwing out insults. You should go somewhere that isn’t your apartment, you know.”   
  
“Why do you know how often we’re going to my apartment?” Killian asked, sinking down next to her and most of the fight had fallen out of him as soon as she lifted her eyebrows in response. “You guys need to find something better to do with your time.”   
  
“Els said Emma’s playing better than she has all season,” Ariel muttered conspiratorially. “And Mary Margaret told Ruby who told Anna who told Belle who told me that Emma took a good chunk of her clothes out of that corner of Mary Margaret and David’s apartment. Weeks ago.”   
  
“That was a lot of names in one sentence.”   
  
“Please, as if you couldn’t follow it.”   
  
Killian twisted his eyebrows, dropping down onto his back and the floor wasn’t really that uncomfortable. “I know where we’re going to go,” he said, and Ariel hummed, a question that wasn’t actually a question because it wasn’t actually words. “None of your business, A. Why are you gossipping?”   
  
“It’s not gossip,” she sighed. “It’s...talking. With my friends. About...you. And Emma. And how happy you are. Consistently.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“It’s not a bad thing.”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Aren’t you happy?”   
  
Killian tilted his head, carpet scratching against his cheek. “Was that not obvious?”   
  
“Well, yeah, but it’d be nice to hear you confirm it. On the record. For posterity. Or whatever.”   
  
“Yes,” he said and he couldn't even bring himself to even try like he was frustrated. “Incredibly happy. Now tell me why you’re pushing that printer to its last bit of toner.”   
  
“I know how to buy new toner.”   
  
“You’re deflecting.” Ariel groaned, wincing when she just dropped the pile of papers onto her stomach. “That couldn’t have felt good at all,” Killian muttered. “C’mon, A, you look like you’re coming unhinged. What’s going on here?”

Ariel winced, the groan even louder the second time and Killian tried to widen his eyes like he was even remotely in a position of authority. He was barely hanging onto his byline and Cora really would rip up his contract if she saw the state of his office wall.

“It’s not great,” Ariel admitted after a few more moments. Killian sat up. And possibly crushed his phone in the process.

“How not great is not great?” he asked.

“Like, decidedly not great. David called me a week ago.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, shifting so he wasn’t sitting directly on his phone and tried to remember all the reasons he’d been so absolutely, completely, _incandescently_ happy for the last month. “Is David supposed to be using a phone?” he asked, and Ariel shook her head before he’d even finished the question.

“No. Absolutely not. And I can only imagine what Mary Margaret would say if she found out he was. Or Emma. Oh, jeez, don’t tell Emma.”  
  
“A, you haven’t actually told me anything, just that David is breaking rules and I already knew that because he was trying to get Emma to make him coffee.”   
  
“It’s some kind of actual miracle Mary Margaret hasn’t gone insane. That’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”   
  
He hummed in agreement, but the frustration was still sitting just on the edge of his consciousness and Ariel’s laptop made a series of quick, vaguely obnoxious noises. “It’s not working, you know,” he muttered.   
  
“My distraction?”   
  
“Yup,” Killian said, popping his mouth on the final letter. Ariel clicked her tongue, rolling her head over the carpet and managing to twist her hair in the process. “Alright. Start at the beginning. David called and…”   
  
“And he and Ruby have been conspiring.”   
  
“Good word,” he chuckled, but something in the back corner of his brain seemed to spark at it and he didn’t really need to ask the next question. “Lucas wants confirmation on this betting thing, doesn’t she?”   
  
Ariel snapped up, knocking over two different piles of paper with her feet. Only one of them still had a shoe. “How do you know about that? Have you known about that the whole time? Why aren’t you in here reading on the ins and outs of sports gambling?”   
  
“You’ve got to stop just shouting questions in my face, A,” Killian said, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Why wouldn’t I not know about that?”   
  
“Why aren’t you murder board’ing it then? This is huge! Aren’t you curious?”   
  
Of course he was. He was innately curious by nature. It used to drive Liam insane – question after question and demands for explanation and reasons and _why, why, why_ and, at one point, when he was fourteen he was only allowed twenty questions a day.

Liam kept track on a notepad in his jacket pocket.

Killian wanted to know everything about Neal Cassidy and he still wasn’t convinced that was his name and he was fairly positive he had some sort of history with Robert Gold and New Orleans, but he was actually using his kitchen and Emma’s jacket had its own hook on the back of his door and, well, that was enough to silence the questions for the last month.

“Ok, you’ve got to stop using murder board as verb too.”  
  
“I’m going to need you to stop trying to issue journalism rules, Killian.”   
  
“Tell me what you’re doing, A!”   
  
She widened her eyes, gaze going just a bit sharper than normal when she leaned around him to restack a lopsided pile of papers. “Neal is definitely running a site. It’s called...no, wait, I kind of want you to guess what it’s called.”   
  
“I do not want to guess what it’s called,” Killian growled, and he was drowning in frustration. He should have brought several liters of coffee with him. He wasn’t expecting to find his office the site of another break-in. He probably should have.

Ariel almost looked disappointed when he wouldn’t play along, sighing softly and resting a hand on his knee. “Ok,” she said. “It’s called Marooners' Rock.”

“What is that?”  
  
“It’s one of the most dangerous places in Neverland.”   
  
“You’re fucking kidding me.”   
  
“I would never joke about horrible Peter Pan references.”   
  
“But that’s idiotic,” Killian stammered, standing up again and nearly taking out both Ariel’s hand and, at least, four piles of paper. “God, jeez, A, if you’re going to commandeer my office, you’ve got to be more organized or I’m going to knock shit over.”

“Get me a desk. I’m not keeping all this stuff in my apartment,” she challenged, crossing her arms tightly and the argument seemed to die on Killian’s tongue. “You want to hear the rest of this or you want to keep yelling at me over your questionable amount of square feet in proportion to the number of stories you’re writing on a daily basis?”  
  
Killian sighed with his entire body, something cracking in his spine when he leaned backward and the door nearly hit him in the head when Will slammed it open. “Fucking hell,” he grumbled. “Get out of here, Scarlet.”   
  
Will ignored him. “You tell him yet?” he asked, glancing at Ariel.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and Will kicked at Killian’s ankle. “He’s being super frustrating and absurdly in love with his girlfriend. They’re going on a date later tonight.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, this is totally going to ruin your romantic mood, Hook, fair warning.”   
  
“You have no tact at all,” Killian said, falling back into the couch and tugging on the back of his hair. “Ok, so, Cassidy is running this site and that means that Gold is controlling the lines and, by extension the tournament, right? Do we know if Gold knows that we know?”   
  
“No,” Ariel admitted. “Not officially, at least. But David is trying to get his partner to look into some more connections and maybe get a warrant for Gold if we can prove this second part.”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes. “The second part?”   
  
“This is definitely the part that’s going to screw up your big, romantic night, Hook,” Will warned. “You were right.”

Killian shrugged, waving his right hand in confusion and Will actually looked like he felt bad. He bit his lip as he sank onto the edge of the desk, nodding towards the piles of papers and, maybe, evidence and Killian hoped his pulse didn’t reach potentially life-threatening levels of quick.

He really wanted Emma to come home with him later. Dying would probably make that difficult.

“I was right,” Killian said slowly, and it didn’t come out like the question it probably should have been. It was a statement and it _hurt_ when he said it because the realization felt a bit like getting struck by lightning or hit by some kind of tsunami.

“There it is,” Will muttered.

“He was in New Orleans wasn’t he? This Cassidy guy?” Ariel nodded, teeth pressed into her lower lip and she couldn't seem to stop blinking. “How’d you figure that out? And how did David factor into this exactly?”  
  
“I was trying to explain that before,” Ariel said. “David called me because he and Ruby wanted to find out what Neal was doing. They were, uh, well, let’s just say they were pretty adamant that this guy was some sort of scum of the Earth type of thing. So they asked if I could try and trace one of the gambling sites that was running lines for the tournament to Neal and, maybe, if I could figure out how he might have landed with a sponsor like Gold.”

Killian opened his mouth – the questions he hadn’t been asking for the last four weeks desperate to be asked, but Ariel glared at him and his jaw snapped back into place. “So,” she continued. “I looked. And there are just a ridiculous amount of gambling sites, David could make a living just shutting down illegal betting...things...whatever they’re called.”  
  
“Focus, A,” Will grumbled, and she glared at him too.

“Whatever. There are a lot of gambling sites, but only one of them that had a stupid Peter Pan pun and lines for the only Overwatch League in the country. They take down any of the old lines because why wouldn’t they, but I’m a genius, so I found them anyway and, that guy was right, they were giving Wail fantastic odds to win. Which means…”  
  
“If Wail lost, Cassidy and this shitty Peter Pan site would pull in a ton of money,” Killian finished, and Ariel’s glare wasn’t quite as pointed when he was right. “Did you tell David already?”   
  
“Yeah, before Scarlet helped me break into your office.”   
  
“Oh, what the hell, A?” Will sighed. She smiled at him. “I didn’t really help that much, Hook. Your office is painfully easy to break into. Tell Gina to get you a new lock.”   
  
“Eventually I do have a date to get to, so if we could get to the point of this conversation sooner rather than later, that’d be absolutely fantastic,” Killian hissed.

“You were right. He was in New Orleans, but he wasn’t running lines,” Will explained. “We…” Ariel cut him off with a loud gasp and he rolled his eyes, kicking his foot towards her. Killian tried not to slide off the couch. “And by we, I mean only A because she is the only one who understands how the internet works. Ariel, in all her research glory, found a guy named Michael Schmid working in New Orleans a couple years before you got there.”  
  
“Before I got there? And how do we know that this guy named Michael Schmid is the same guy as Neal Cassidy?”   
  
Will squeezed one eye shut, jumping off the edge of the desk and immediately stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket. Ariel was suddenly very preoccupied with the floor.

“How?” Killian asked sharply, standing up quickly and that word hurt too.

“Because a Neal Cassidy met with someone nearly ten years ago in New Orleans,” Ariel whispered, and Killian was fairly certain his legs just decided, collectively, to stop working.

He dropped back down, head colliding with the wall on the way and Ariel was going to do permanent damage to her lip if she bit it any harder. “And do we have a name to go along with this person he met in New Orleans about a decade ago?” Killian asked.

He didn’t want the answer.

He already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Ariel muttered. “Hans Norge.”

The world stopped spinning or maybe started spinning faster or, possibly, just jumped into another solar system completely and Killian wasn’t entirely sure that possible, scientifically speaking. It would probably require black holes.

He didn’t know anything about black holes.

Maybe Mary Margaret would know.

God, he couldn’t ask Mary Margaret about black holes. Not when David had just gotten home – and immediately started covert investigations with his not-really-assistant who absolutely did not work for the New York Police Department.

“Holy shit,” Killian mumbled, pressing his fingers into his jaw and he kind of wished he’d brought the murder board if only to try and make sense of any of this. “And how exactly do we know that?”  
  
“Well, I’m really good at the internet…”   
  
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. How do we know that Neal was in New Orleans? And meeting with Hans the sleazy lawyer? How are you getting this access?”   
  
“Ah, well, David is kind of...helping?” She glanced at Will like she was looking for confirmation and he made a noise in the back of his throat that was neither an agreement nor a disagreement. “I mean, that’s kind of the right word, wouldn’t you say, Scarlet?”   
  
Will made the noise again. “I mean, yeah, I guess. Pulling strings might be a better phrase.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s definitely better. Let’s just say, Detective David Nolan is pretty damn pissed off that he got shot and even more pissed off that Neal is trying to play with his sister’s happiness. He and Lance have been helping me get through to figure stuff out and, you know, maybe overlooking some of the less legal aspects of what I’m doing.”   
  
Killian gaped at her, mind racing and heart racing and he was fairly positive he felt a hair tie in his pocket. “God, what the hell has been happening with all of you in the last month and why hasn’t anyone told me?”

“Really?” Ariel asked, twisting around to pull herself up and resting her hand on his knee. “Killian, you are so ridiculously happy. Like. It’s absurd how happy you are. And how obviously happy you are. And how obviously happy Emma is. Neither one of you was nearly that happy when this started. We can’t...we’re not going to mess that up for you when she’s basically living in your apartment.”

“How do you know all of this?!”  
  
“Hook, c’mon, everyone knows,” Will sighed. “Everyone’s known since, like, Philadelphia. You guys are horrible at this. And you gave her Liam’s ring.”   
  
That was true. He had. And he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel _something_ every single time he remembered it was there or the light reflected off the stone because, more often than not, it seemed to fall over the front of Emma’s shirt. That might be because she kept pulling on it. That made him feel something too.

“That seems big,” Ariel mumbled, swiveling on her heels and nearly falling over. Will nodded seriously, widening his eyes.

Killian squeezed his own eyes shut and tried not to actually tear the hair tie that was inexplicably in his pocket in half. “How did Cassidy end up in New Orleans? Emma said he was running lines in Portland.”  
  
“I have no idea. He just kind of...showed up, got arrested on some misdemeanor and records show Hans showed up and got him off in, like, point two seconds.”   
  
“What kind of misdemeanor?”   
  
“Theft,” Ariel answered. “The record said he’d broken into a cash register of some store in the French Quarter. He’d never been charged for anything before though. Which, that’s kind of weird, don’t you think? I tried to ask David about that, but he just kind of shut down.”   
  
“Also weird,” Will added and Killian hummed, a distracted agreement while his mind tried to piece together a brand-new puzzle.

“Do you know how long he was in New Orleans?” Killian asked Ariel.

She shook her head. “This is why we needed to break into your office, so we had the floor space to map it all out. He shows up in New Orleans, gets arrested for the first time ever, which, again, weird, then gets off without any charges, and at the same time Neal Cassidy seems to fall off the edge of the Earth, Michael Schmid shows up a couple of times in major moments. He signed off on a shipment at Weselton's eight years ago.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Yeah. See, it’s weird that he’s never been arrested before, right?”   
  
“Definitely,” Killian agreed, exhaling air he didn’t remember actually breathing in. “Shit, so he’s definitely working with Gold. You think he’s just a lackey, then?”   
  
“Well, we don’t know for sure that Gold was in charge of New Orleans,” Ariel pointed out and, that time, Killian glared at her. “I know, I know, but, you know, technically.”   
  
“Technically,” he grumbled, slinking down the back of the couch and Will nearly laughed. “Do David and the partner know all of this?”   
  
“Yeah. David obviously can’t do anything when he’s badgering Mary Margaret to let him play MarioKart, but the partner can do some stuff and he’s still trying to get something to stick on Hans. They think if they can get the sleazy lawyer, they might be able to get him to talk.”   
  
“And give up Gold?”   
  
“I don’t think I was actually supposed to tell you that, but that’s the plan as far as I know.”   
  
“Sounds like a shaky plan,” Will muttered.

Killian couldn’t help but agree – he didn’t say that out loud. He just wanted to go on his date. And not be so goddamn curious all the goddamn time. Shit, he had a ton of questions. “Alright, I’m going to get coffee,” he announced, ignoring Will’s wide eyes and the way Ariel glanced towards him. “You guys want anything?”  
  
They both mumbled no and Killian nodded like he was listening and not several dozen blocks uptown and then a few more blocks uptown and crosstown and in bed with Emma’s hair in his face and an appropriate amount of oxygen in his lungs.

He didn’t say anything else before he walked out of his office and he didn’t ever come back.

Killian walked home – something like a hundred blocks and it was February and fucking _freezing_ , but he couldn’t seem to stop, one foot in front of the other and weaving through tourists and traffic and his fingers might have actually turned blue at some point.

Hans the sleazy lawyer was never going to give up Gold. Not if he hadn’t already.

And Killian wasn’t a police officer or a detective or even a goddamn crossing guard, but he knew David wouldn’t be able to bring Hans in for questioning without a reason and there wasn’t one. Not yet.

There were just loose threads that made sense when laid out next to each other, but never seemed to knot together.

“God damnit,” Killian mumbled, falling on his bed and there were six hair ties on the table next to his head. He laughed softly, the noise sounding foreign in an apartment that Emma hadn’t actually been in three days.

He didn’t care about Gold. Or Neal. Or Hans the sleazy lawyer.

Or, well, he was going to try and care about it less.

For now, he had a date.

Killian didn’t walk to Turtle Bay – which was probably for the best since he was fairly certain the soles of his shoes would just fall apart somewhere on Broadway. He did, however, get flowers. Because he was nothing if not just a bit sentimental.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his heart was doing when he knocked, fairly certain the nerves he could feel in the pit of his stomach were absurd considering he’d found another two hair ties on the kitchen counter before he’d left, but his heart didn’t seem to care and he felt his breath hitch when Emma swung the door open.

“Hey,” she breathed, smile inching across her face. “You’re early. It’s, like, ten of.”

“Deadlines,” Killian muttered, and it was stupid and didn’t really make much sense, but Emma’s smile got bigger and her laugh seemed to snuff out any sense of nerves, so he wasn’t going to dispute his own explanation.

He shook his head quickly, gaze tracing across her and her cheeks had gone slightly pink when she realized he was holding a goddamn rose like the most romantic cliché to ever exist.

She was wearing a dress. A _pink_ dress that hit just below her knees and seemed to flair out over her hips and it was soft and _gorgeous_ and Emma’s whole face flushed the longer Killian kept standing there, staring at her.

“Swan, you look...stunning,” he said slowly, and she blinked when he paused on the compliment.

“Yeah, you look…”  
  
“Oh, I know.”

“Really went all out, huh?” Emma asked, but there was a hint of something on the edge of her voice, like she was hoping that was exactly what he’d done.

Killian nodded, taking a step forward only to realize that there was a small audience in the living room. The apartment looked like a mix between a hospital and some kind of video game war zone – a mattress and box spring moved into the living room and Detective David Nolan propped up against the wall with a controller in his hand and Ruby next to him, muttering insults in his ear while Anna snickered on the couch.

Mary Margaret’s voice drifted from the kitchen, talking to Elsa about lesson plans and what sounded like plans for papier-mâché hearts.

“I didn’t think they were all going to be here,” Emma explained, nodding back towards the room and Ruby had stopped insulting David long enough to realize Killian was standing in the doorway.

“Jones,” she shouted, leaning forward and David made a strangled noise when the bed creaked. Mary Margaret dropped, what sounded like, eighty-two pots and pans. “Come in here and get Em to destroy David in this game before you guys go make out in the hallway again!”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groaned.

“It’s alright, love,” Killian promised, resting his hand on her hip. He took another step into the apartment, Emma mumbling about _plans_ and _we could really just go make out in the hallway_ , but David was shouting too and Anna seemed to stunned to find Killian there.

“I thought you were supposed to be here at seven,” she said. “It’s barely even ten of yet.”  
  
Killian shrugged, ignoring Ruby’s exclamation when she realized he was holding a goddamn rose. “Why do you know what time I’m supposed to be here? Why are you even here?”   
  
“Will told me. Obviously. And Ariel, but Will did first. You should stop telling him things.”   
  
“Tell him to stop breaking into my office then.”   
  
“Wait, what?” Emma asked, twisting slightly and Killian couldn't really think when she pressed her whole body against his. Or when David glared at him like he’d just given up several state secrets and the passcode to the locks at Fort Knox.

“Nothing, Swan,” Killian said quickly. “Scarlet and A broke into my office because A doesn’t even have a desk.”  
  
“You should tell Regina to get her a desk.”   
  
“A fact she pointed to me several times while I was trying to get to my own desk this afternoon.”   
  
Emma hummed, but Killian could almost hear her thinking and her eyes darted to David when he made another noise. “Detective,” she said, and he winced when he sat up straighter out of habit. “Is there something you’d like to add to the conversation?”

David shook his head. “You look nice.”  
  
“That seems like a very well-placed deflection.”   
  
“Ariel broke into your office, Killian?” he asked, and Killian tilted his head at the sudden turn of address. Emma rolled her head back onto his shoulder, body going limp against his and they needed to get out of that apartment.

“Yeah,” Killian said brusquely. “I think we’ve already covered that point. Although, I think, technically it was Scarlet. He’s more of degenerate than A is.”  
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
David made a significant face and Killian tried to respond with something that announced he _couldn’t actually read minds_ , but it didn’t work and he could feel Emma’s eyes on him. “Yeah,” David repeated. “She happen to mention anything?”   
  
“A little.”   
  
“What the hell is going on right now?” Emma asked sharply, glancing at Mary Margaret when she stepped into the living room.

Ruby shrugged, but Anna looked like she knew _everything_ and Elsa couldn't seem to stop biting her lip. “M’s,” Emma continued. “What do you know that I don’t know?”   
  
“Nothing,” Mary Margaret said quickly – too quickly to be anything except the lie it obviously was. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”   
  
Emma stood up straighter, eyes moving from Mary Margaret to Killian to David and back again. “Right,” she snapped. “Sure it is. Alright, well, if you guys are all done plotting, then we’re going to go.” She turned towards Killian, eyes just a shade darker than usual. “You want to go?”

“Yeah, of course,” Killian nodded, mumbling a quiet _thank you_ when Mary Margaret reached forward to tug the flower out of his hand. “Let’s go, love.”   
  
Ruby made another noise and Anna might have actually shrieked, but David looked somewhere close to stoic, back straight against the wall and controller forgotten against him. “Hey,” he yelled when Killian wrapped his arm over Emma’s shoulders. “We’ve got him.”   
  
Killian’s whole body tensed. “What?”

“Or, at least, in the process of getting him. Someone’s going to talk. It’ll stick.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, frozen half a step from the door and the hallway and a date that could distract from everything else. “Who?”   
  
David shook his head – as if he hadn’t already given away far more information than was entirely legal – but Ruby grabbed the controller next to her and started miming and Killian did his best to make sure his knees didn’t buckle.

Humbert.

Graham Humbert was going to talk.

“Oh,” Killian said, a wholly underwhelming response. Ruby looked disappointed.

Emma was staring at him again, lips pressed together and breaths coming in quick huffs and this wasn’t exactly the pre-date plan he’d been hoping for. “C’mon, Swan, let’s get out of here,” he said, squeezing her shoulder lightly.

She didn’t say anything, just nodded, tugging her lower lip behind her teeth and letting her hand ghost over her ring. Huh. That was the first time he’d thought of like that.

It took, exactly, four blocks for the silence to end.

“What was that?” Emma asked, turning on him and nearly taking out a Bloomingdales-bag-touting tourist in the process. “Honestly?”  
  
Killian blinked. “What?”   
  
“Are you serious? Your game is to just play dumb now? Is David working? He got shot a month ago! He’s supposed to be sitting. Indefinitely.”   
  
“I mean, not indefinitely, Swan. Eventually, I’m sure he’s planning on getting out of bed.”   
  
“You know what I meant.”   
  
“I do,” Killian sighed, throwing his arm out to hail a cab.

“And?”  
  
“And what?”   
  
Emma groaned, twisting her neck, but following him into the cab all the same. “Where are we going, exactly? Because it is February and I am wearing a dress so, you know…”   
  
“I know that too, love. And we’re not going to be sitting outside. We’re going to see how the other half lives on the other side of the park.”   
  
“You say those words like they actually make sense.”   
  
Killian laughed, tugging her back against his side and pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. “Despite my assurances otherwise, there are things to do on the East Side of Manhattan. So, we’re going to go do them.”   
  
“All of them?”   
  
“Maybe eventually.”   
  
Emma pulled her head up slowly, eyes wider than normal and they hadn’t actually gone back to their usual color, but they were brighter than they’d been in the apartment and Killian realized, rather suddenly, what he’d actually said. “We should make a list,” she said. “Of all these things.”   
  
“More organized that way.”   
  
“Exactly. What else do you have?”   
  
They spent dinner making a list – barely acknowledging the waiter or the drinks or, at one point, even the food, Emma glancing up when she realized there was a plate in front of her like that was surprising for a very fancy restaurant on the Upper East Side.

“When did we get food?” she asked, earning a look of complete disbelief from the waiter nearby.

“I’d imagine when the waiter showed up five minutes ago and asked if we wanted more to drink,” Killian grinned.

“Did we? Want more to drink?”  
  
“Yeah,” he nodded, tapping a finger on the edge of her glass before taking a swig of his own drink and everything felt incredibly warm and easy and there was a napkin in between them with sixteen different things written across it.

“Ok,” Emma said, but Killian wasn’t sure if she was agreeing to the food or the drinks or some kind of _maybe eventually_ promise made in the backseat of a cab. “Sixteen’s a weird number though, don’t you think? Not very round.”   
  
“Sixteen’s a perfectly round number, Swan. Divisible by all sorts of other numbers.”   
  
“See, this math lesson is not the romance I was promised.” He grinned at her, downing the rest of his drink and she definitely leaned towards him, tapping a finger on the napkin. “There’s a distinct lack of fountains on this list as well.”   
  
“You’re complaining quite a bit about this list, love,” Killian muttered. They were going knock over the candle on the table if they moved any closer to each other. “You’ll give a man a complex over his list-making skills.”   
  
“Maybe I just have fond memories of particular fountains.”   
  
“We need to get out of here,” he said suddenly, appreciating the way Emma’s eyebrows moved, surprise coloring her features when she pulled back.

She nearly knocked the candle over.

“What?” she asked, gasping softly when Killian tried to flag down someone who worked in that absurdly fancy restaurant at the same time he tried to push her glass towards her. “Jeez, relax, it’s like you’ve got eighty-four limbs.”  
  
He snapped towards her, smile turned just a bit teasing and Emma rolled her eyes. “God,” she sighed, but with something that felt a bit like how much he absolutely loved her and she drank the rest of her wine.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Killian mumbled, ten minutes later, his hand wrapped up in Emma’s and a smile on his face that was threatening to do permanent damage to the muscles in his cheeks.

“What is happening right now?” Emma asked. “You’re like a kid on Christmas morning.”

Killian hummed distractedly, jogging up the sidewalk. “We came here on Christmas one time. They don’t close the park on national holidays.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”   
  
“Yeah, I realize that,” he laughed, a ridiculous, giddy sound that might have had something to do with the amount they’d already had to drink or possibly just the feel of Emma’s hand in his. She’d finally bought gloves.

They were a mess of limbs and laughter and Emma’s hair hitting him in the face when a gust of wind blew down Museum Mile and neither one of them stopped, Emma following Killian or maybe the other way around in some kind of deeply meaningful, decidedly romantic way.

They kept moving and walking and he had to remind himself that they couldn’t just start making out on the sidewalk – maybe once they got into the Park – but all of that seemed to evaporate in front of him when they turned to find the fucking gate locked.

“Ah, well, shit,” Killian growled, kicking at the wrought iron poles in front of him. “This is supposed to be open.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured that part out on my own strangely enough,” Emma muttered. She took a step around him, tugging on the front of his jacket. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Vanderbilt Gate. Named, as its name suggests, for the Vanderbilt family and their ridiculous amount of money. There’s a garden on the other side. And a fountain once you get into the garden. It was...well, this was Liam’s favorite place in the park.”  
  
Emma tilted her head, smile tugging on the corner of her mouth and her gaze shifted again – away from anger or surprise or even the _want_ that had existed just a few moments before and Killian couldn’t come up with the right word, but it might have been contentment and that felt more important than any of the other ones combined.

“You know Nate Archibald was a Vanderbilt,” she said, pressing up on her toes and his arm wrapped around her waist instinctively.  
  
“I have no idea who that is.”   
  
“He was best friends with Chuck Bass. You know, the one that owned the Empire with his ghost dad? His mom was a Vanderbilt. That’s why they still had money when his dad got arrested for some kind of drug thing. That was an early season, I don’t remember the specifics.”   
  
“Are we talking about Gossip Girl again?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “Are you sure Liam wasn’t secretly a CW junkie? Because all these places seem to coincide with Gossip Girl storylines.”   
  
“I’m fairly certain it’s just a coincidence, love.”   
  
“If you say so. I think he was secretly watching CW dramas without you..”   
  
Killian chuckled softly, letting his forehead rest against Emma’s when she dropped back on her feet. “I love you,” he muttered, and he couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was smiling.

“I love you too,” Emma said, moving one hand away from his jacket to twist around a belt loop and, well, the park was closed.

There was no way to avoid making out on the sidewalk.

Emma sighed against him, back on her toes and fingers wrapped around his neck and Killian made some kind of noise he had absolutely no control over when he felt her nails scrape through the bottom of his hair.

He held onto her like she was going to disappear, hand tracing across her back and over the curve of her hip and then up again, trailing through the ends of her hair and there were was entire fucking park in between them and a bed.

It was starting to snow.

And Emma was starting to shiver, the bottom of her dress twisting against the wind.

“We’ve got to get out of here, love,” Killian said, glancing over his shoulder like a car would just materialize out of nowhere.

“No, no, wait,” Emma muttered, and he turned back around at the sound of her voice, the concern and the worry obvious in the tone. “Listen, um, I know why David was trying to talk to you in code before.”  
  
Killian lifted his eyebrows, Emma staring a hole into the ground under her feet. “Yeah?” he asked cautiously.

She nodded, shivering again – there was no wind. “He’s, well, he’s angry. Pissed, actually. And, um...there’s more to this betting story than what I told you.”  
  
“You don’t have to, Swan. This isn’t...we’re not on the record.”   
  
“No, no, I know that, but I kind of want you to know? I mean you told me about Milah and Liam and possibly his secret life as a Gossip Girl tour guide,” she tried to laugh and Killian could feel his heart thud against his chest. “Anyway, uh, it really is a good story. And you already know most of it.”   
  
He didn’t say anything. He should have, probably, but he wasn’t sure he could say anything that wasn’t just some kind of ridiculous promise to love her _no matter what_ and anything less felt a bit disingenuous

“When I was seventeen I left and wound up in Portland and stole Neal’s stolen car and we started playing,” Emma explained. “And, well, you know that part, jeez, this is actually harder than I thought. Um, so, we started playing and Neal suggested we start running lines and throwing games and tournaments and we could make a ton of money and we did. For a little while. Until it started becoming kind of obvious that we were running lines.”  
  
Killian’s heart stopped.

Or possibly just flew out of his chest.

“Emma,” he said slowly, but she shook her head, holding her hands up in between them and he didn’t say anything else.

“So,” she continued. “There was an...investigation and arrests. Or, well, one arrest. Me. He...he gave me up. Said it was my idea and I helped plan it, which was kind of true and I got a year and David couldn’t do anything. He was eighteen. I mean, I’d done it, it was illegal and I already had so much shit on my record. It made sense. Runaway kid, one-time ward of the state with eighteen different foster homes to her name already. Of course I fucked up.”  
  
She smiled – a twist of her lips that did more to chill Killian than the snow or the actual cold. “Anyway,” Emma sighed. “That’s...that’s why David is so mad because Neal’s doing this shit again and I know he’s trying to get Graham to talk. It’s...I just wanted to play video games. Neal wasn’t even supposed to be here and none of this makes any sense. I don’t understand how he got here or how he found Gold or…”   
  
“He was in New Orleans,” Killian interrupted, suddenly finding his voice and Emma gaped at him. “That’s why A broke into my office. She’s been helping David try and piece everything together, so she’ll probably get new business card soon with NYPD associate on them or something, but, yeah, she found him in New Orleans about ten years ago.”   
  
“Ten years?”   
  
Killian nodded. “Got arrested for petty theft. Hans Norge got him off on some technicality.”   
  
“What?”

“A said they’re trying to get something to stick with Hans and then maybe it’ll all connect. But, uh, he was using a different name in New Orleans. Michael Schmid. I know that name.”  
  
Emma’s shoulders sagged, eyelashes fluttering and her fingers wrapped around his wrist – left wrist. “Fucking hell,” she breathed. “I...this is...I’m so sorry.”   
  
That was the last thing he expected to hear.

“What?” Killian asked. “Why?”  
  
“Because this is...I should have told you about Neal from the very start, but I didn’t want the story to get out and I was so scared of disappointing David and M’s again and I didn’t…”   
  
“Didn’t what?”

She licked her lips quickly, eyes just a bit glossy when she tilted her head up. “I didn’t want you to…you could have...”  
  
He kissed her.

And, all things, considered, he probably should have let her finish, should have promised he _didn’t care_ about police records or ex-boyfriends who maybe worked for crime bosses who had maybe tried to kill him or even injured police detective brothers who had tried to talk to him in code a few hours before.

He could feel the anger simmering under his skin, moving through veins and arteries and whatever actually moved emotion through an actual human body, fury at the idea that anyone could have let Emma believe she was anything except what she was – incredible and determined and the center of absolutely _everything_.

And she kissed him back.

They got a cab eventually, the driver only grumbling slightly about crosstown traffic and Killian didn’t care, just gave him an address and started kissing Emma as soon as the car moved.

Killian stumbled when he tried to open the door, Emma half a step behind him and the security guard didn’t even say anything when the moved into the lobby – all but sprinting towards the elevator. He nearly broke his finger hitting the button and Emma laughed, tugging his hand away and pressing her lips against his knuckles and his _I love you_ seemed to just fly out of his mouth.

She smiled.

“You’ve got to take this off,” Emma mumbled as soon as the apartment door closed behind her, but the words got jumbled when he pressed her back, hips canting up against his.

“That wasn’t very specific, love,” he smiled, pressing kisses against her neck and the side of her jaw and he could really use a hair tie if only to make sure there was more skin to kiss.

“The jacket. All of it. Anything. I don’t care.”  
  
Killian hummed, but didn’t actually move, letting his teeth slide along the top of her shoulder and he’d probably think about the noise she made for the rest of his life and then several eons afterwards. He somehow found a bit of space between them, pushing forward again and Emma gasped when his hand twisted around the fabric of her dress, tugging the skirt up and his own breath caught when he moved his fingers again.

He must have muttered _I love you_ again because Emma answered him and that only seemed to spur him on, bending his knees slightly and neither one of them could have been comfortable, pressed up against his door, but neither one of them tried to move either.

“God, Emma,” Killian muttered when he shifted his hand again to find she wanted as much as he did and she was still wearing her heels.

He was, by his very definition, however, a greedy asshole and he wasn’t going to let either one of them move until he got her to make that sound again and then maybe told her that he’d accept eighty-two mysteries and nine-thousand pieces of crime-based thread if it meant she loved him back.

She hitched her leg around the back of his calf and that felt like the tipping point, her eyes closed and her mouth open slightly and he kissed her when he felt her whole body shudder underneath him.

“You are terrible at listening,” Emma said a few moments later, pulling on the jacket he’d never actually taken off.

“I was distracted,” Killian countered. “What are your thoughts on a bed?”  
  
“Positive.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
He left his jacket on the arm of the couch when they walked back and his shoes landed in two different spots in the hallway, his belt dropping to the floor as soon as they walked into the bedroom. It took, at least, four tries to get the zipper on Emma’s dress down, but they got there eventually, fabric pooling at her ankles and a nervous smile on her face and Killian wasn’t sure he’d ever loved anyone more.

“You’re staring,” she accused. “Or just frozen. I’m not sure which is weirder.”  
  
“Staring for sure,” he promised, tracing his finger down her side and leaving goosebumps in his wake. “You are so beautiful, you know that?”   
  
She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Maybe you’re just having some kind of aneurysm. You did get an onslaught of information today.”   
  
“I don’t care. Well, no, that’s not true. I care, quite a lot, but not about what you think.”   
  
“And what do I think?”   
  
“You didn’t fuck up, Swan. You didn’t do anything wrong. You are...everything.” He wished he could come up with another word. Nothing else made sense. “And this, whatever you tell me, it’s not going to change anything.”   
  
“Yeah?” she asked softly, caution in the word and that fury he’d felt before turned into something else. Determination.

They were going to get the bastards.

“Yeah,” Killian nodded. “I mean, we made a list so…”  
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh, but she smiled at him and pushed his shirt off and Killian followed as soon as she dropped onto the bed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is...more of an incredibly thick stew at this point. We'll get to trying to wade our way through said stew soon. But here are some makeouts in the meantime. All secrets on the table. 
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for clicking and reading and saying very nice things. It's real nice. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	26. Chapter 26

“I can’t believe you are letting us have a murder meeting in your apartment.”  
  
“Please don’t call it that,” Mary Margaret sighed, pouring what looked like several tons of coffee into the machine. “And get off the counter. David’s got some kind of sixth sense when it comes to that.”   
  
“David can’t get off the couch.”

Mary Margaret made a noise in the back of her throat and it was definitely a murder meeting – Lance telling David they had news and if the entire team was going to be aware of nearly every detail of this open investigation then they should probably be there too and, well, that meant Ariel was going to show up too and Emma told Killian and it wasn’t really for moral support, but it might have been exactly for moral support.

And Mary Margaret totally knew that too.

She glanced over her shoulder when the door opened, footsteps and quiet mumbles of _hey_ and _hi_ and _how are you feeling_ and Emma’s pulse jumped in her veins when she realized it was Killian.

“You’re smiling,” Mary Margaret muttered, tapping knowingly on Emma’s knee. “And, honestly if you don’t move you’re going to get burned by the coffee maker.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense. I’m literal inches away from the coffee maker.”  
  
“Ah, well, calling this a murder meeting doesn’t make any sense either. No one is dead.”   
  
She made a significant face, crossing her arms and settling her weight on heels and Emma was never going to win this argument. Particularly when there were other footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Is that more alliteration, Swan?” Killian asked, and Mary Margaret’s face did something else entirely. Emma rolled her eyes.

“Not intentionally,” Emma said. “What are you holding?”  
  
Killian squeezed one eye closed, tilting his head and Emma was fairly certain smiling in the middle of a murder meeting – intentional alliteration or not – was probably against some kind of unspoken rule.

“He brought his murder board to your house,” Ariel shouted from the living room, and Emma nearly fell off the counter, trying to lean towards the sound.

Killian moved, resting his hand on her thigh and Mary Margaret might have been the one who blushed when he shifted in between Emma’s legs. “I’m uh....going to go anywhere else,” she stammered, and Emma’s eyes were going to sustain permanent damage from rolling.

“M’s, you don’t have to actually leave,” Emma sighed. “This coffee maker and I don't get along. Plus, the cookies.”  
  
“You made cookies?” Killian asked, staring at Mary Margaret like he’d never seen anyone quite like her.

He absolutely had not.

“And brownies,” Emma added. “With frosting.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s entire face was red. “You make it sound like it’s a big deal.”   
  
“It is. You’re dealing with a wounded invalid out there, that one kid in your class who doesn’t ever want to stop screaming and all of this video game shit.”   
  
“It’s not video game shit. And, technically, the video game stuff goes with the wounded invalid out there.”   
  
“I am not an invalid,” David shouted, the couch creaking as he tried to prove he how perfectly fine he was.

“Sit down,” Emma and Mary Margaret yelled with practiced ease.

Killian grinned at her – ignoring whatever Ariel was mumbling about on the other side of the room and it sounded like Will was there too. “He said he’d get all the information from Anna and Elsa anyway, so I might as well just let him come with me,” Killian explained.

“And get the goddamn murder board out of my apartment,” Will added, leaning around the side of the wall and staring at Killian like this was a conversation they’d had a dozen times.

“Yeah, that too, I guess. And David wanted to see what I’d, I don’t know, pieced together or something.”  
  
“How come you kept it in Scarlet’s apartment?” Emma asked.

She’d started moving her fingers at some point, arms slung over Killian’s shoulders and hand moving across the back of his neck and she was fairly positive she didn’t imagine the way he breathed a bit easier at that.

And she wasn’t sure when she’d gotten so used to just...touching him. It wasn’t an active decision, more she’d just started and couldn’t bring herself to stop. It was comforting or something that sounded a little less lame when they were totally about to have a murder meeting in her brother’s apartment.

Killian shrugged, hand still on Emma’s thigh. “It seemed like a bad move to bring something they called a murder board into a brand-new apartment.”  
  
“You were worried about jinxing your apartment with a murder board?”   
  
“It sounds ridiculous when you ask it like that.”   
  
“Nah,” Emma shook her head, and she still couldn’t quite believe she’d told him about Neal. Well, no, that was wrong. She couldn’t quite believe he’d reacted the way he had about Neal and the prison and a week after the date they were still making food at his apartment and she barely had any clothes left in her compound.

Nothing had changed.

Just like he said.

And Emma was surprised and just a bit overwhelmed and they had to play another round of video games in a week.

“Basically what he’s saying,” Will said, stepping into the kitchen with bottle of beer he must have brought himself in his hand. “Is that he was more than willing to let my apartment hold onto whatever aura the murder board has. He didn’t think twice about leaving me to contend with that.”

“You forgot it was there,” Killian pointed out. “You put it in a closet.”  
  
“To snuff out the bad aura. Obviously.”   
  
“You need to get off the internet.”   
  
There were more voices coming from the living room and Emma’s stomach twisted with nerves and alliteration and there was, apparently, news to discuss. She was going to tell them all about Neal. And prison. And hopefully none of them would hate her for it.

Emma was bordering dangerously close on wallowing again, mouth going dry and the counter seemed to be pressing directly into the bottom of her legs.

“Hey,” Killian said softly, squeezing her leg and she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. “It’s going to be fine, Swan.”

Emma nodded slowly, doing her best to let herself believe the words, but she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen and it felt like her lungs were on fire. He’d written another story three days ago – Anna’s feature running on the site with vaguely ridiculous quotes and sass and she knew an absolute _shit ton_ about Grand Theft Auto.

In any variation.

“Did it hit?” Emma asked, and he widened his eyes in confusion. “The story, I mean. Three hundred and a million clicks and everything?”  
  
“I don’t know that we were ever going for a million, love.”   
  
“You know what I meant.”   
  
“I do,” Killian grinned, tapping his thumb on her jeans. Mary Margaret was trying to get coffee mugs out of the cabinet, but Will had brought alcohol to a not-quite legal murder meeting with two NYPD police detectives, so the coffee seemed kind of pointless.

Unless they put the alcohol in the coffee.

“I don’t know total numbers,” he continued softly. “I haven’t really talked to Ariel about it yet and I’m not going to ask Gina. She does that whole terrifying-editor face whenever I try and bring it up.”  
  
“Terrifying editor face.”   
  
“Yeah, like she’s figuring out all the ways to erase my hard drive and get rid of my notes and make it look like an accident.”   
  
“She’s worried, that’s why.”   
  
“And that’s why I don’t want to ask her.”   
  
Emma hummed, kicking her foot out and her heel landed on the side of Killian’s leg. “Do you think it was close? The hits, I mean?”   
  
“Why are you so worried about this?”   
  
Because she was worried about _everything_ and she couldn’t really control David trying to get off the couch or even what happened with Lance’s investigation, but she cared about Killian – _loved him_ , just an absolutely ridiculous amount and she hadn’t been entirely prepared for it, but he’d worked his way into every corner of her life and Emma wasn’t sure what she’d do if he lost her byline because of her.

“I don’t know,” Emma lied. “I guess it’d just be nice.”  
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows. He’d stopped moving his thumb. “It would be,” he agreed. “A million hits and they might just give me complete control of the site.”   
  
“You’re making this a joke.”   
  
“It’s easier to deal with that way.”   
  
“See, that seems to suggest there’s more to this than you’re letting on. You really have no idea about the hits?”   
  
“None.”   
  
Emma sighed, shaking her head and he was an even worse liar than she was. “You should practice that in the mirror or something before you try again.”   
  
“Noted.”

Mary Margaret was still standing in the kitchen, eyes wide and nerves practically rolling off her in waves. “The mugs are behind you,” she said, nodding towards the cabinet Emma was resting her head against.

“What?” Emma blinked.

“The mugs. For the coffee that we made. Or you know, whatever other alcohol Scarlet brought. I guess we could put those in mugs too.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, hitting her head on the cabinet in the process and Killian’s hand moved back to her waist when she tried to slide off the counter. “Thanks,” she muttered, but his answering smile couldn’t quite quell the nerves in the pit of her stomach.

“Ariel brought plastic cups,” Killian said. “We had to find a Duane Reade around here because she said we’d look like assholes if we showed up with alcohol and no plastic cups.”  
  
Mary Margaret let out a decidedly un-Mary Margaret laugh and maybe all of this was getting to her more than she was letting on. She’d sent that one kid to the assistant principal’s office a few days before.

“Oh,” she smiled, brushing a piece of hair out of her eyes and there were more voices in the living room. “That was really nice of her actually. And there’s a Duane Reade on Lex.”  
  
“Yeah, we realized that rather quickly, actually.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s smile widened – more genuine and normal than it had been all night. “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward to wrap her hand around Killian’s arm and his whole body seemed to freeze in the middle of the kitchen. “For...well, thank you.”   
  
He mumbled something under his breath and Mary Margaret’s eyes darted towards Emma, a distinct lack of subtlety she didn’t entirely hate anymore before jogging back towards the living room and welcoming an entire video game team to a murder meeting.

“I can hear you thinking, Swan,” Killian muttered as soon as Mary Margaret was gone, twisting her back towards him with his hand on her shoulder. “Why are you so worried about the hits?”  
  
She shrugged, a tried and true diversion tactic she knew wouldn’t work. “I just...he’s getting desperate, I think.”   
  
“Who, Gold?”   
  
“Yeah. I think, well, I don’t know what I think because I haven’t been leaving murder boards in Mary Margaret and David’s closet, but I think Graham refusing to go along with the plan really fucked them up. I haven’t watched any of the Pan streams recently, but Ruby’s, like, obsessed with it and she said he was dragging us and me and, well, mostly me for the better part of the last two weeks.

She thinks he’s trying to build up to the third round, get people to stop believing in us or something. And if people aren’t interested or rooting for us, then they stop clicking on the profiles and then there aren’t any hits and you’re out a byline.”

Killian narrowed his eyes, lips pressed together tightly and Emma could hear _him_ thinking. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”   
  
“It happens sometimes.”   
  
“What happens if I don’t hit then?” Killian asked. and Emma tried to ignore whatever her whole body did at that. “If they force me out, what does he expect is going to happen?”

Emma shrugged and she hadn’t really gotten that far in her plan or plot and it probably would have been easier to keep track of if she was writing it down. And it hit her suddenly and painfully and she was glad he hadn’t moved his hand off her hip.

“He thinks you’ll leave,” Emma whispered. “If you don’t have the job or the byline. He thinks you’ll be gone. He can cut you out of the equation if you’re not writing.”  
  
“That’s not how this works,” Killian said immediately.

“You need a job.”  
  
“There are freelance gigs.”   
  
“He’s in charge of the entire city. He could blackball you for every paper in a fifty-mile radius. Haven’t we already decided he’s got guys at the tabs and that’s why none of this Wesselton shit has come to light?”   
  
Killian sighed. “I don’t care.”   
  
“I care. A lot.”

He stared at her – all blue eyes and his hand heavy on her hip and he hadn’t actually taken his sneakers off when he’d walked in, Emma’s not-socked toes brushing over the front of them when she tried to take a step towards him.

She used the front of his shirt to pull herself up, trying to get level with him and there were still a few inches of space, Killian ducking his head and bending his knees and they probably looked absolutely absurd.

It was some kind of miracle no one had walked into the kitchen.

Emma should probably thank Mary Margaret for that.

“It won’t matter,” Killian said softly. “Whatever they do. The hits are going to be there. We were close. I think. Over two-hundred at least, yesterday, and Anna’s name alone should drive some traffic and it’ll be fine.”  
  
“You sound like a broken record,” Emma pointed out.

“But a catchy one. You know where the skip kind of matches up with the rhythm.”  
  
“That’s a very dated reference.”   
  
He laughed softly and her toes were only just barely touching the linoleum floor still. “Yeah, that’s true,” he admitted. “But I think you’re right, Swan. He’s getting desperate and Cassidy is getting desperate and I don’t think either one of them expected you to be so goddamn good at playing video games.”   
  
“Compliments,” she muttered, letting her head fall against his shoulder and she tried to breathe him in or something equally absurd, but she couldn't stop touching him either and there were still leftovers in his fridge uptown.

“Facts. Did you look at the line for your match this round?”  
  
“No, but Els did and she said we’re supposed to lose. Badly.”   
  
“What a fucking asshole.”   
  
“Which one?”   
  
“Any of them.”   
  
Emma smiled against his shirt, fingers finding the bottom of his hair and he made some kind of noise that absolutely did not belong in her brother’s kitchen. “What do we do now?” she asked, and his shoulders shifted on _that_ particular word.

“I think that’s what the meeting is for.”

“That’s not really what I was talking about.”  
  
“Yeah, I realize that,” Killian said, rolling his shoulder so she’d look up at him and her knees nearly buckled.

She couldn’t remember ever being looked at like that – somewhere between love and devotion and something that might have just been awe that she was standing barefoot with an NYPD sweatshirt on and her hand still in Killian’s hair.

He took a deep breath before he answered, letting his fingers skim along her side. “I don’t know,” he muttered, and that wasn’t the answer she expected. Or hoped for. Idiot. “We are...I’m not a cop, Swan and I can’t actually do anything except hope that they don’t pull my byline and you guys somehow keep winning games so I can keep trying to meet absurd hit marks.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
“I wasn’t done,” Killian grinned, ducking his head and kissing along her jaw, but Emma swore she felt it in every inch of her.

“Oh.”  
  
“I don’t know what happens with the murder meeting or the threads your brother is promising will make sense after this murder meeting, but I am one-hundred percent sure that I am happy. And it’s out of place and it doesn’t make much sense, except none of this had made much sense, so maybe in some round-about way, it does.”   
  
“This is a very convoluted speech.”   
  
“I get distracted when you do that thing with your hands, love.”   
  
“Move them?”   
  
“In close proximity to me, yes,” he grinned, and Emma was definitely going to do damage to her retinas or nerve endings or whatever in her eyes.

“You’ve circled right back around to charming,” she laughed, dropping onto her heels when his palm pressed flat against her back. “I don’t, well, the whole talking, grand sweeping speech isn’t really my thing unless there are virtual obstacles involved, but I’m happy too and I don’t...would you leave?”  
  
“Without a byline?” Emma nodded, stomach churning and twisting and she was back in the middle of _hoping_ before she realized. “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t think I really could.”

“Good.”  
  
It wasn’t enough – just four letters and one syllable and there was a living room filled with quasi family a few feet away, but Emma really wasn’t very good at words or anything that didn’t require a controller and a headset, so she just kissed him instead.

He didn’t argue.

“I love you,” she mumbled against his lips and she could feel him smile.

“I love you, too. We’re going to figure this out.”  
  
Emma nodded, a certainty she wasn’t sure she had until that exact moment. “I know we are,” she said. “Can I ask my follow-up now?”   
  
“I wasn’t aware I got a question to start.”   
  
“You can ask two later if you want.”   
  
“That seems fair, go ahead Swan.”   
  
“Did you keep your murder board, whatever you want to call it because of whatever story you told or because you didn’t want me to be worried that you were making a murder board?”

Killian blinked, pulling his hand away from her waist to tug on the hair behind his ear. “Good question,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound as upset as he could have. “And, yeah, absolutely that. It seemed kind of out of place in a new apartment. We should have at least one thing that’s easy, right?”

Her stomach stopped twisting long enough to flip and flop and maybe her heart emitted several rainbows, but she was too busy staring at Killian’s slightly hopeful expression to even check.   
  
“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “Absolutely that.”

“If you guys want to hear what the Detective has to say you should probably get out here,” Ruby called, the couch creaking when she, presumably, jumped over the back.

Emma sighed, letting her head fall against Killian’s shoulder. “She’s going to break every bone in her body and then we’ll be out a player and none of this will even matter.”  
  
“Ask Henry to do it,” Killian grinned, and they were making jokes in the middle of a murder meeting. Or they would be if the murder meeting ever started.

That probably required them to leave the kitchen.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Emma admitted. “We’d totally destroy every line Second Star or Marooners' Rock or whatever could even come up with.”  
  
“I can hear you,” Ruby shouted.

Emma didn’t pull her head up, voice muffled by Killian’s shirt. “Yeah, I wasn’t avoiding that.”  
  
“Rude. Seriously. No one can read Jones’ handwriting on the murder board. He’s at least got to come out here to explain the difference between his n’s and h’s. They look like the same letter.”   
  
“I think we’re being summoned, love,” Killian mumbled, the words falling into her hair and Emma could hear the disappointment there.

She didn’t want to talk about this.

She didn’t want to analyze a murder board he’d tried to make sure she didn’t see.

She wanted to go eat the leftovers he had in his fridge.

They couldn’t do any of that.

Emma sighed again, trying to smile when she pulled her head up and it didn’t really work. “Your n’s and h’s really do look almost identical,” she said. “The u’s too.”

“At least it’s not in shorthand,” he grinned, slinging his arm over her shoulder as they moved back into the living room.

There was a small army there – all of Widow’s Wail and Ariel and Scarlet and Lance must have just gotten off his shift because he was still wearing a tie and a shoulder holster. And the small coffee table in front of the couch looked like it was actually wilting under the weight of all the food and alcohol on top of it.

“Can you write shorthand?” Emma asked, sinking onto the arm of the couch. Killian shrugged, pulling Ariel’s feet off the corner of the only open cushion and wincing slightly when she let her heels fall back into his thighs.

“That’s a yes,” Will pointed out from a chair on the other side of the room, his own feet balanced precariously on the back of the couch and maybe the couch would break before the coffee table.

Emma’s eyes widened, surprise mixing with something that felt like the exact opposite of surprise. “When did you even learn that?”  

“Probably when he was showing off his conversational French and questionable knowledge of Greek, like that’s something people ever need to know,” Will answered.

“Are you Killian?”  
  
“Thankfully, no.”   
  
Killian moved his arm, shifting around Emma’s waist and David didn’t say anything – something Emma would probably spend the rest of her life thanking him for. “Are you done?” Killian asked Will who just grinned in response and this was the least serious murder meeting in the world.

It was probably because of all the alcohol.

“Oh my God,” Ruby grumbled, whole body going slack against Belle and legs draped over Mary Margaret and Emma couldn’t figure out how they were all on the couch at once. That couldn’t have been comfortable.

The alcohol probably helped that too.

“Go ahead and tell me how entertained you are by my ability to banter, Lucas,” Will laughed.

Ruby glared at him. “Trust me, I am nowhere even close to entertained and the only reason I haven’t kicked you out of this apartment is because I like Anna and I am already delightfully buzzed.”  
  
“It’s not your apartment.”   
  
“My team.”   
  
“It’s Emma’s team.”   
  
“How could you possibly be buzzed already?” David interjected, sounding a bit frustrated that _he_ wasn’t buzzed. Or playing MarioKart. “I’d almost be impressed if I wasn’t worried about your liver.”   
  
“Leave my liver out of this,” Ruby hissed. “And Mom and Dad were too busy making googly eyes at each other in the kitchen to come out here and listen to Lance, sorry about that Lance.” The Detective waved a dismissive hand through the air, clearly confused by the dynamic of the apartment and how to read Killian’s handwriting. “So my choices of entertainment were either listening to Scarlet talk incessantly or get buzzed on the shitty vodka I swiped from Granny.”   
  
“You stole your grandmother’s vodka?” Elsa asked.

Ruby shrugged. “We’ll bring it back. Maybe. We’ll probably finish it. I mean, M’s bought cranberry juice for the occasion. If we’re going to play police, then I’m definitely going to be drunk for it.”

“You are not playing police,” David mumbled, but Ruby barely batted an eyelash. “That’s the last thing we’re doing here. This is dangerous.”  
  
Ruby’s lips twitched – like she was fighting off some kind of vaguely sarcastic response, but she didn’t actually say anything, just grabbed the bottle of cranberry juice off the table and poured it into a glass that was, apparently, straight vodka.

The shitty kind.

“You said it wasn’t dangerous, Detective,” Emma said, and it came out like an accusation.

David sighed, flush creeping up the back of his neck as he ducked his eyes towards his still-bandaged stomach. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think it would be. But then, you know, I got shot and we’re fairly positive Wesselton didn’t just...disappear.”

Emma was glad there was still an arm wrapped around her waist – just a bit tighter than it had been a few moments before – certain she would have just fallen off the side of the couch otherwise.

She felt the air rush out of her lungs, leaning around Killian to grab the plastic cup out of Ruby’s hand, ignoring the not-so-quiet shouts of indignation as she downed the entire thing in four, quick gulps.

“God, that’s shitty,” Emma muttered, shivering when the alcohol burned the back of her throat. “What do you think that cost, two bucks?”  
  
“It’s, like, two-hundred proof,” Ruby chuckled. “It’s from Poland or something. I’m not sure Granny realized it was in the back.”   
  
“Wait, what? How is that even possible?”   
  
“How are you not dead right now?” Lance asked, genuine curiosity in the question and Ruby laughed even louder. She might be more than buzzed. Emma might be more than buzzed.

“That can’t be possible,” Killian said. He tried to keep his arm around Emma when he leaned towards the table, but that didn’t really work and she ended up off the arm of the couch, letting out a soft _oof_ when she all but crashed onto his legs, barely avoiding Ariel’s feet.

Anna was staring at her own glass like it was trying to poison her. “Is that even legal?” she asked, eyes flitting towards Lance.

He shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of knowing the alcohol laws of New York State. You want to talk about Wesselton, though, and I’m your guy.”

“Do we really want to know about Wesselton though?” Elsa asked, her own plastic cup closer to empty than it had been a few minutes before.

“Depends I guess. Because we’re fairly certain Hans got him out of New York. And not of his own free will.”  
  
“Whose free will?” Emma asked, shifting slightly and she heard Killian’s breath catch, the hand on her hip tightening just a bit. “Hans or Wesselton?”   
  
“That’s a good question. And Wesselton.”   
  
“So...what you’re saying is Wesselton didn’t leave New York on his own terms?”   
  
Lance shook his head. “No. The opposite of that, in fact. We’re fairly certain he was, let’s just say, pushed out the metaphorical door.”   
  
“Do you think he’s dead?”   
  
Mary Margaret actually gasped, but Lance just looked impressed. “No,” he answered easily, nodding back to Killian’s murder board. “He needs to stay alive if Gold is trying to get back into New Orleans.”   
  
The whole room went silent – eyes darting towards Killian and Emma, and Will was halfway out of his chair, feet landing back on the floor like they were made of concrete. “You think Gold is trying to get back to New Orleans?” he asked softly. “As in Gold was in charge of New Orleans?”

Lance opened his mouth to answer, but Ariel was quicker, shooting Will a _significant_ look. He sat back down. “No,” she said. “Gold’s never left New York. I mean, well, you know what I mean. He’s gone places, but those places never included New Orleans and certainly not in the timeframe we’re looking at.”

“Which is what?”  
  
“The last decade and a half or so.”   
  
“Shit.”

Ariel nodded and Emma could feel Killian’s chest moving against her back, quicker than normal and his hand was bordering just on the edge of too tight. “Ok, wait, a second,” Emma said, not entirely sure where she was going with this. “So, what you’re saying. Is Gold just...exists in New York? And runs all of this from what? His penthouse on Fifth?”  
  
Lance made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

“There’s a second in New Orleans,” Ariel muttered, eyes darting towards Killian who, now, appeared to have just breathing entirely. “Someone who was in charge of day-to-day, but we can’t figure out who. And that person totally fucked up.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”

Killian exhaled, the force of it making Emma shiver. “Whoever was in charge of New Orleans had a leak,” he explained. “Several, actually, who were more than willing to talk to me and go on record and that’s, at the risk of sounding like an asshole, what brought down that ring. The police weren’t even looking until we started publishing stuff.”

He glanced towards the two police officers in the room, but David actually laughed and Lance made that noise again. “Anyway,” Killian continued. “If Gold is trying to get back to New Orleans, it’s because he’s got enough money to move back into it.”  
  
“It here being what?” Emma asked. “The international drug trade?”

“Yeah, probably.”  
  
“Jeez. Ok, so then where does that leave Second Star or even Pan for that matter? Oh, shit,” she groaned, earning an entire living room’s worth of confused stares. Killian almost smiled. “He’s using the League for the money. That’s why they’re running the lines and the stream stuff and all those donations from Wesselton to drive up donations from everyone else.”   
  
“Keep going,” Killian said, nodding slightly like this all made perfect sense to him. He was the one with the board, after all.

Emma bit her lip, far too aware of everyone still gaping at her and Elsa mumbled something to Ruby that sounded like _give me more vodka_. “So, if they’re controlling the League and Neal was in New Orleans at some point, you think Neal has been working for Gold from the get-go? That would almost explain how Jeff was in New Orleans.”   
  
“Wait, what?” Mary Margaret shouted, an edge to her voice Emma had only heard once before.

Neal was involved then too.

“We think it’s him,” Ariel started. “The very short version is that Neal got arrested, Hans showed up and Neal disappeared and then this other guy showed up in New Orleans and his name pops up a handful of times in situations that tie directly back to the Lost Boys.”  
  
“It was definitely him,” David said suddenly and the edge in Mary Margaret’s voice turned into some kind of _protective growl_ and Emma felt her whole body sag backwards.

Killian kissed the side of her head.

“How do you know that?” Emma asked.

David made a face  – somewhere in between frustration and a look Emma knew as _protect at all costs_. “Because we’ve got a guy,” he said.   
  
“A guy?”   
  
“A guy. Who...will talk. For some stuff, but, Em, I can’t actually get into the details of that. The only reason we’re even having this meeting, twisted party thing is because A’s been helping us and you guys are connected to Wesselton and we’ll probably have to get statements from all of you if he actually turns up dead.”   
  
“What?” Emma screeched, jumping off Killian and nearly knocking over the coffee table with her knee.

“We don’t actually think he’s dead,” Lance said quickly. “I mean, yet.”  
  
“Yet?”   
  
“Who exactly is this guy?” Ruby asked, tugging on the back of Emma’s shirt before she started pacing in the middle of the living room. “Sit down, Em. You’re freaking me out.”   
  
Emma gaped at her, shoulders moving quickly and there were too many people in that apartment because she couldn’t seem to pull enough oxygen into her lungs. She didn’t move until she heard the couch creak again, Killian shifting to the edge and lacing his fingers through hers.

“Is it Humbert?” Ruby pressed. Her voice cracked slightly on the question and Emma’s stomach heaved, vision swimming in front of her at the idea that they’d dragged someone _else_ into this mess.

“Not in this instance,” David replied evasively and Ruby growled in response.

“I will actually strangle you, Detective.”  
  
“Rubes, you can’t just make threats like that. And I’m wounded.”   
  
“You can’t just play that card for the rest of your life,” Emma mumbled, working a soft chuckle out of Mary Margaret. “Ok, ok, so Humbert is your in on the betting thing, right? And he said he’d what...testify or something? How does this work?”   
  
David nodded. “Let’s just go with a generic something for now, ok? Graham doesn’t know anything about Wesselton.”   
  
“We asked,” Lance added, and David looked like he wanted to strangle _him_. “And someone from the raid talked. Some guy who worked for Wesselton and knew about the connection to New Orleans and the push to get back into the trade. He won’t give up any names though. If we’re all going to make idle threats, I’d like to strangle him.”   
  
Emma scoffed – almost an entirely out of place laugh, but the sound seemed to die on her throat when she felt Killian tense underneath her again. “What?” she asked, but he didn’t actually meet her gaze.

“He worked at the piers?” Killian asked, staring at Lance like it was the most important question he’d ever asked. Lance nodded slowly. “HIs name wouldn’t happen to be Gauthier would it?”  
  
David’s face went pale and Lance actually stumbled back a step as if he were trying to avoid being strangled. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“Who do you think my source was in New Orleans?”

“God fucking damnit,” David groaned, sighing against Mary Margaret’s shoulder when she moved towards the chair he hadn’t actually gotten out of all day. “Of course he was.”

“What did you call it at the start, Swan? You were a six-degrees-of separation team?”

She nodded slowly – mind _racing_ at even the idea that he remembered _that_ and she really shouldn’t be surprised because he’d bought four things of cinnamon two weeks ago so there was always cinnamon in his questionable amount of cabinet space uptown, but she still couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea that any of this was real and _fate_ just seemed far too absurd to even acknowledge.

“Yeah, something like that,” she mumbled, huffing slightly when she realized she had, at least, eighty-six more questions. “He worked on the piers in New Orleans? This Gauthier guy?”  
  
Killian hummed. “Yeah, the entire time I was there. He didn’t know much about the higher-ups though. Nothing about Wesselton or Cassidy if that’s where you’re going, love.”   
  
“Mind reader.”   
  
He shifted underneath her, left arm wrapping around her and she was fairly certain he pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Did he find you?” Killian asked, nodding towards David.

“Yeah,” David answered. “A couple days ago. Said things were getting…what was the word he used?”  
  
“Hectic,” Lance muttered, an unimpressed look on his face.

“Ah, that’s right. So, things are getting hectic, your source shows up at the 17th with this whole plan and information and he’s willing to talk if we promise to strike a deal with the DA who, naturally, was more than willing to agree to all of that if it means she can get Gold. He’s the one who told us about Hans getting Wesselton out of New York.”  
  
Ruby and Elsa made almost identical noises, scoffs that were inching just a bit closer to skeptical. “Yeah, getting him out,” Elsa muttered. “That’s a nice way of saying taking him out.”   
  
“We don’t know he’s dead,” Lance repeated, clearly doing his best to sound like the voice of reason. It didn’t really work.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed. Killian’s arm tightened and she brushed her fingers across it, tracing over skin and plastic and it almost made her feel better, but her stomach also felt like it was trying to work its way up her throat. “Ok, ok, so, the high points. Wesselton is out of New York, Hans made sure he was out of New York, some guy who fed Killian information in New Orleans is now, also, in New York and you guys are...what? Arresting Hans?”  
  
“Yeah,” David said, quickly and easily and the entire living room seemed to sigh at the same time. “Exactly that.”   
  
“Can you do that?”   
  
“Are you asking me if I understand how the law works, Em?”   
  
She tried to muster as much frustration as she could in her sigh, but it all felt a bit melodramatic and she hadn’t had enough Polish vodka for this conversation. “No, no,” she grumbled. “I just...you’ve been trying to get this guy for months and now some pier rat shows up and suddenly everything is just going to stick?”

“I don’t know,” David shrugged, wincing when he moved the wrong way. “But we get Hans and we, maybe, get him to talk. He’s a lawyer. He knows how deals work.”  
  
“And you just think that’ll happen?” Ariel asked skeptically. Her eyes darted towards Killian who, despite breathing, was now, apparently trying to masquerade as a state. “The guys very good at covering his tracks.”   
  
Lance laughed. Loudly.

“He’s gone crazy,” Ruby mumbled, grabbing the notebook out of Belle’s hands. She’d been taking notes. Like the murder meeting was for some kind of murder club and none of this made sense.

“No, no, I haven’t,” Lance promised, laughter still hanging on the edge of the words. “He just finally made a mistake.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked loudly and she wished she could just stop shouting words. “How?”   
  
“He went to New Orleans.”

Will grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka and down two, quick gulps, handing the bottle directly to Killian who did the same and Mary Margaret held her hand out expectantly. “Give me that,” she demanded, and Killian didn’t argue.

“When?” Emma asked. She was still shouting one-word questions. Killian kissed her shoulder again. “How?”  
  
“They have these things called planes, Em,” David drawled, but he stopped talking when she glared at him.

Lance flashed her a sympathetic smile, taking a step forward to crouch in front of the table. “This week, apparently,” he said. “That’s why this guy said he could finally talk. No Hans on the horizon to off him or something.”  
  
“That’s not funny,” Emma hissed, and Lance dropped his hand on her knee. “Is it a crime to go to New Orleans now?”   
  
“It is if we have a witness who claims that he was going to the piers that Wesselton controls down there. Kind of goes along with that whole plan you came up with before, doesn’t it?”

Emma nodded numbly, not sure what else to say. That didn’t last long. “And where do we fit into all of this?” she asked. “If we’re connected to Wesselton because of the sponsor thing then what happens now? We’ve got to play a video game in a few days.”  
  
“Yeah and would you like to guess when Hans come back from his little vacation to New Orleans?”   
  
“God. Day of?”   
  
“The red eye back the night before. Or so says the rat.”   
  
“And you can’t pin anything on Neal?” Emma asked, rolling her eyes when a very clearly buzzed Mary Margaret seemed to choke on the minimal oxygen in the apartment. “Weren’t you talking to Humbert?”   
  
“Is everyone in this room secretly a PI?” Elsa asked. Ariel snickered under her breath.   
  
“David needs to get better at communicating telepathically with Killian,” Emma explained. “And Humbert told us that Neal was the one talking to him about throwing games. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“One crime at a time, Em,” David said. “And we can’t get into the backend of this betting site. Ariel’s tried a ridiculous number of times. The only thing we have is Humbert’s word and the idea that Neal might be this guy who worked with Gold in New Orleans. He was never charged with anything down there. By either name.”  
  
“Well, that’s dumb,” she sighed, a picture of immaturity and her buzz was already gone.

“If we get Hans everything else opens up. It gives us a lane into Gold and the drug stuff and the betting and maybe even some shit with the League.”  
  
“Wait, the League?” Belle asked sharply, pen still flying across her notebook.

David groaned, closing his eyes lightly and his shoulders visibly sagged under the weight of _everything_. “Yeah,” he nodded. “We think...and the Feds who are now involved in all of this also think that Gold may have some in with the League.”

“Shit,” Emma mumbled, falling back against Killian’s chest and both of his arms moved around her waist. “So what do we do? Do we still play?”  
  
“Yes,” Lance said at the same time David shook his head.

Emma lifted her eyebrows. “That’s kind of a confusing answer.”  
  
“That’s also part of the reason we called this meeting,” Lance admitted. “We, uh, well, the NYPD and the FBI would be interested in using you guys as…”   
  
“Spies?” Ruby finished, sarcasm dripping off the question.

Lance shrugged. “More or less.”  
  
“You’re kidding me, right?” Emma asked, sitting up straighter and Killian’s arms tightened. _Left shift. E. E. E. R. Q. Q. Left shift_ . “We play video games!”   
  
“And Gold is trying to control two different cities with a video game tournament.”   
  
“What do you expect us to do?”   
  
“Nothing different than what you’d normally do. You get there and you play and you maybe observe a bit more. She can bring that notebook again.” He nodded towards Belle and the pen held tightly between her teeth, a look almost like _fury_ on her face. “You guys do this and the Feds won’t look into your connection with Wesselton.”   
  
“We had nothing to do with any of that,” Elsa yelled. “You don’t have any reason to even assume that knew what Wesselton was doing or who he was connected to.”   
  
“Except Emma’s relationship with Cassidy. And her record.”   
  
David couldn’t actually stand up, but he tried anyway – Mary Margaret and Ruby not far behind. Killian looked close to murderous.   
  
“Sit down, Detective,” he seethed, but Lance just crossed his arms.

“I’m not suggesting you guys have anything to do with any of this,” he said. “But it all is kind of coincidental, don’t you think?”  
  
“Emma,” Anna whispered. “What is he talking about?”   
  
Her heart stopped. And then started to hammer against her ribcage as if to announce its return and presence and she glanced at Killian, that _stupid_ smile on his face working its way into the very center of her soul or something equally as _stupid_. “We can eat leftovers later, Swan,” he promised, and Emma’s answering laugh seemed to come from some place she didn’t know actually existed.

She took a deep breath, twisting again and slinging one arm over his shoulders, fingers finding the back of his hair and she refused to even _think_ about how she was touching him, _again_ , like that would, somehow, make all of this easier.   
  
She told them. The whole goddamn, depressing story and Anna’s eyes got wider with each sentence and Belle looked torn between that earlier fury and trying to just hug Emma and Tink kept muttering curses under her breath.

Ariel and Will kept staring at Killian.

Ruby drank more vodka.

“So, uh, that’s...that,” Emma finished lamely. “And that’s why I know Humbert isn’t lying about the lines or the betting or why I’m fairly positive Gold is trying to use this to make money. I didn’t know that Neal knew him from before, though. Ten years ago would have been just after I got arrested.”

“God, what a fucking asshole,” Anna fumed. “We’ve got to beat him.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“We’ve got to play. We play that other team next, but Second Star will probably win their semi, right?” Emma shrugged. “Well, if we win then we play them in the final. We can wreck him.”   
  
“We’ve really got to find another verb,” Ruby muttered.

Emma scoffed, but her eyes were going dry from a distinct lack of blinking and her lungs were starting to burn and she couldn’t remember the last time she actually took a deep breath. “You guys...this is...I mean David got shot.”  
  
“We’re not going to get shot,” Elsa said reasonably. “That’d be insane.”   
  
“This has all been a little insane.”   
  
“And,” Tink added. “David got shot in the middle of a drug raid. We really are just going to play video games. I doubt they’ll do anything absurd in Midtown.”   
  
Emma’s eyes flashed towards David and Mary Margaret – matching looks of trepidation on their faces and Killian could have been a statue for how much he hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes.

“You don’t have to do this, Em,” David said gruffly, every emotion he was feeling obvious in the words and the letters and the way he tried to get up. Again. Mary Margaret rolled her eyes.

“It’s not just up to me though,” she argued. “I mean, this is...we’re a team, right?”

She looked at Killian.

She didn’t mean to. Well, no, maybe that was a lie.

And he looked at her like she’d already won and taken down several different criminal empires.

“Absolutely, love,” he muttered, kissing her quickly and in front of her team and her brother and a goddamn detective in the New York Police Department.

“We’re totally going to win,” Anna declared.

They did, in fact, win.

Easily. Incredibly easy. Far _too_ easy.

They set some kind of record for reaching the payload in the first round a week later and breezed through the second and August Booth had never played that badly in his life.

They were being played.

Still.

“God fucking damnit,” Ruby hissed as soon as they were off camera and away from the headsets and Second Star was already winning its first game. “That asshole lost on purpose so we could get through.”  
  
Emma hummed, frustration seeping through every inch of her and all she wanted to do was get the hell out of Times Square or, at least, a little farther up Times Square and Granny had yelled at all of them for stealing the alcohol during the pre-round _not-really-a-party-party_ the night before.

They couldn’t leave. They had to spy on Second Star. Or whatever the technical term for it was.

“You ok, love?” Killian asked, pushing through the crowd with Will close on his heels.

“Yeah, fine,” she said quickly, and he quirked an eyebrow, the lie not even coming close to sounding legitimate. “Belle is actually taking notes.”  
  
Killian glanced over Emma’s shoulder, his own pen tucked behind one ear. “Ah, well, those were the instructions.”   
  
“I can’t believe he lost on purpose that badly.”   
  
“Who? Booth?”   
  
Emma nodded and she couldn’t actually twist her fingers through his belt loops and tug him against her the way she wanted, so she settled for taking a step into his space. His hand fell on her hip immediately. “Yeah,” she muttered. “It’s just...I don’t know. Desperate, I guess.”   
  
“It is,” Killian agreed. “But if they can get the rat on the record and maybe even get him to testify that locks up Hans and Gold isn’t anything without Hans.”   
  
“Or his second in New Orleans.”

“I don’t know who that is,” he sighed, head falling forward slightly and Emma resisted the urge to brush his hair off his forehead. “I’ve been trying to come up with someone, anyone, who I knew of or might have known of and I can’t figure it out.”  
  
“That’s not your job,” Emma pointed out.

Killian twisted his lips, an objection etched into every corner of his face. “I know that,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind adding it to my business cards.”

Any tension that had been lingering in any of her muscles seemed to evaporate as soon as the words were out of his mouth, eyes flashing up towards her and _fuck it_ , Emma pressed up on her toes and caught his lips with hers. She smiled when he groaned against her.

“Regina would push you out that enormous window in your office if you even suggested getting new business cards,” Emma mumbled.

He laughed, the sound working its way through her and into her and a slew of other verbs that she’d probably come up with if she had a better vocabulary or wasn’t so distracted by whatever it was his hand was doing against her back.

“That’s an awfully specific plan, you’ve just come up with, Swan,” Killian said.

Emma shrugged, twisting when she heard another catchphrase – _Justice rains from above!_ – and that felt a little too on point. “We have to go spy,” she groaned, tugging lightly on the credential around his neck.

“Scarlet snuck in food.”  
  
“How is that even possible?”   
  
“He’s got all those pockets on that ridiculous photography vest he wears.”   
  
Will glared at Killian, flashing a gesture that absolutely should not be anywhere near the stream and Emma was surprised she meant it when she laughed. “Bastard,” Will shouted. “And you guys are going to be hungry in, like, fifteen minutes. I’m just avoiding a blood sugar crash.”   
  
“That sounds violent,” Elsa laughed, taking one of the protein bars Will tugged out of a pocket.

“Yeah, well, we’re all secret agents now too, so violence comes with the territory.”  
  
“We are not secret agents,” Emma groaned, looking at the food selection in front of her. “Ah, didn’t you bring anything with chocolate? Or some kind of caffeine?”   
  
Will beamed at her, fishing in a pocket on the _inside_ of his vest to pull out a glass bottle. “Hook demanded you were presented with some form of coffee-type product as part of your victory meal. He threatened my job, Emma.”   
  
She couldn't just kiss him again – she wanted to, but she didn’t, because Emma was some kind of responsible adult and her boyfriend making sure she got caffeinated throughout the day was no reason to just jump him in the middle of the Playstation Theatre.

Except the only other experience she’d ever had with a _boyfriend_ was sitting on the other side of the Playstation Theatre, likely trying to screw over her entire life for the second time, so maybe she didn’t really have much to draw on.

“Thanks,” Emma mumbled, and she looked at Killian when she spoke.

He kissed her, lips brushing over her temple and hand still doing _whatever_ against her back and Second Star had already won its first round. “Let’s go spy, Swan,” Killian said.

They made their way through the protein bar stash and the three soda bottles – Ruby and Elsa both questioning what kind of _Mary Poppins, Doctor Who trick_ Will’s vest was – before Second Star won its second round.

And it wasn’t quite as easy as their victory had been, but it was still pretty close and Emma knew, immediately, it was all part of the plan. Second Star was, suddenly, some kind of odds-based underdog.  

None of them talked about it. They just sat and observed and Belle took notes and Emma tried not to actually fall asleep on Killian’s shoulder.

That was proving more challenging than she expected.

Emma knew Second Star would win. She knew they’d try and play the odds. All of this was going to according to plan.

She wouldn’t actually say she was _bored,_ but there hadn’t been much caffeine in that tiny, glass bottle and Killian was just so goddamn warm and comfortable and she’d slept like shit on Mary Margaret and David’s couch the night before.

That changed when she heard the footsteps.

And she knew.

“Fucking hell,” Emma grumbled, the whole lot of them practically snapping to attention.

Neal came up just short of her outstretched legs, hands stuffed in his pockets and his headset still hanging around his neck. “Congratulations,” he smiled. “Heard you guys set a record.”  
  
“You were standing upstairs.”   
  
“I don’t just have Overwatch records memorized, Em.”   
  
“What do you want?”

Neal’s eyes widened for half a moment, taken aback by the acid in Emma’s voice, but he recovered quickly, gaze darting to the arm around her shoulder. “You know, I didn’t think Helm was serious in Philadelphia,” he murmured. “But then there were all those rumors and talk and, well, guess they were true weren’t they?”  
  
“Get the fuck out of here, Cassidy,” Ruby hissed, but he just kept smiling, rocking back on his heels like he was enjoying himself.

“I’m just talking. Aren’t there rules against that?”  
  
“You talking?” Emma asked.

“Hooking up with your journalist. Got to be against the rules, right? But then that’s kind of _his_ game, isn’t it?”   
  
“You’re asking all these questions like you expect me to answer them.”

“I think you just did.”  
  
“Oh my God, get out of here, Neal,” Emma sighed, but it sounded almost defeated and that wasn’t right at all. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. None of it is going to work.”   
  
She was the worst spy in the history of the entire world.

“That so?” he asked. And, suddenly, Emma wasn’t an Overwatch record-holder, legitimate or not, she was seventeen and sitting in a dimly lit room with her arm manacled to a table like she’d just killed someone instead of trying to make some money and she just wanted to go _home_ , she wanted someone to come and get her and fix it and tell her she was going to be fine.

“Go crawl back in your hole, Neal,” Emma said softly. “Back to your sponsor and your money because it’s not going to work. None of this is going to work.”

He shrugged.

The asshole actually smiled at her and shrugged, leaning forward slightly like he was going to actually touch her, but he must have thought better when he saw the look on Killian’s face.

And Emma stood up.

“You should watch out Em,” Neal muttered, but there was a note of unease that hadn’t been there a few seconds before. “Your journalist’s got a habit of leaving corpses behind him.”

She couldn't think of the word.  

It wasn’t fury or rage – it was more than that. It was...everything she’d felt in that dingy room in Portland and a decade’s worth of disappointment and no one had ever gotten her coffee before.

She did the only thing that made sense.

She slapped Neal across the fucking face.

He stumbled back slightly and Ruby might have actually _whooped_ while Anna’s camera shutter clicked and both Elsa and Belle appeared to have frozen. Tink and Will were both hysterical.

Emma didn’t look at any of them.

She snapped back around, breathing heavily and shoulders heaving and her entire palm was tingling. Killian stood up slowly, stepping back towards her and cupping her face in both of his hands.

Both of his hands.

She thought, for half a moment, he was going to kiss her. He didn’t.

“We’re fine, love,” he said instead, and the words seemed to settle in the back corners of her memory and everything was, suddenly, just a bit brighter.

“There’s still Polish vodka at Mary Margaret’s,” Ruby announced. “I think it’s time we let David get back into the MarioKart swing of things, huh?”  
  
Emma nodded, not taking her eyes away from Killian and she wrapped her fingers around his wrists. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's fighting crime together and not really following proper police procedure. As always I can't possibly thank you for reading and clicking and commenting. It's real nice. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	27. Chapter 27

There was hair in his eyes.

And halfway in his mouth.

And an entire body pressed up against his chest, feet that were always several degrees colder than an actual living human’s probably should be twisted in between his. He should go back to sleep.

It was, probably, early.

He could go back to sleep, but there was already sunlight creeping in between the curtains and Killian couldn’t quite ignore that body pressed up against his chest or the hand wrapped around his like she was trying to make sure he didn’t actually move.

He couldn’t argue that.

Emma shifted slightly and that was absolutely unfair because he couldn’t actually just starting groaning in the middle of the bed, but that was a very distinct type of challenge at whatever time it was.

She took a deep breath, a quiet, contented sound that seemed to work its way through every inch of him and that was a problem too, but Killian still couldn't bring himself to move anymore than brushing his thumb over her palm.

“I know you’re awake,” Emma mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow half her face was pressed into and Killian felt the smile on his own face immediately.

Killian hummed, tightening his arm and pressing his lips against the back of her neck. That got her to move again. Maybe he was just torturing himself.

They should really go back to sleep.

They didn’t have anywhere to be.

No practice. No stories. Nothing. Just sunlight peeking through curtains and half a dozen different recipe options to choose from and they’d have to get up eventually to buy whatever food they needed for whatever recipe they actually decided on, but that was some kind of distant future that seemed just a bit hazy when Killian’s hand moved to Emma’s stomach.

“And you don’t actually have to be awake yet, Swan,” he countered, appreciating the soft whine in the back of his throat when he started tracing out patterns on her skin.

“Why are you? What time is it even?”  
  
“Habit and I have no idea. I don’t know where my phone is.”   
  
Emma lifted her head up slightly –  hair splayed out across the pillow, _her_ pillow, maybe, he’d kind of just been considering half of everything in that apartment as hers for the last few weeks – nodding towards the nightstand a few feet away from her.

“You leave it there every single night,” she said, and Killian could hear the smile in her voice.

“Ah, but I was distracted last night. Not paying attention to phone charging schedules at all.”  
  
“I mean, obviously, not, it’s plugged in and everything.”

“I have no idea how that happened.”  
  
Emma laughed, flipping on her side and she was smiling, the force of it landing somewhere in the realm of his rib cage or just, like, _the center of his soul_ , but it was very early and that kind of sentiment seemed just a bit overwhelming before they’d even had any coffee.

“You really don’t have to do anything today?” she asked.

Killian couldn’t really shake his head when he was still laying down, but he tried anyway, pressing his lips together and trying not to just press her shoulders back into the mattress and kiss her until she couldn’t see straight.

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”  
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Exactly,” he grinned, and one of them probably moved first, but it kind of felt like they just moved at the same time and he’d probably have to thank several different deities for a wide-open schedule that allowed him to hear whatever sound Emma made his in ear when his hand skimmed over the top of his thigh.

“If we’ve got nothing to do,” Emma muttered, breath hitching when Killian ducked his head towards the side of her neck, “then why are we awake?”  
  
“We’ve just been over this love. And I’m slightly distracted again now.”   
  
She laughed – or tried to, the sound getting caught in her throat when he moved back to her mouth and he couldn’t think of a single coherent thought when her fingers carded through his hair.

He wasn’t sure _how_ they moved, only certain that they did when Emma’s hips canted against his and he couldn’t _breathe_ when she did that, let alone consider actually saying words. He was some kind of trembling mess, balancing on one forearm and his knees and his goddamn left hand was sitting on the nightstand next to his, apparently, charging and, he hoped, silent, phone.

Killian tried to move, not sure what he would do when he did, but his right arm was twisted up under her waist and that was leaving him decidedly short on options and he was a bit one-track minded already.

Her back arched when she pulled her fingers out of his hair, tracing down his neck and across his back and he just barely managed to keep his balance when she landed on his hips, blankets pooling around his calves and it wasn’t really cold, but neither one of them was really wearing clothes and he shivered.

She smiled at him, the movement slinking across her face and he wasn’t sure he’d ever loved anything more than he loved her in that one, single moment.

Even with his hand half asleep and pinned under her back.

He would have been content to kiss her for the rest of the morning.

Or, maybe, the rest of his life, but that also seemed to fall decidedly in the middle of _sentiment_ and he couldn’t actually mention that before the caffeine.

“Hey,” Emma muttered, tapping a finger on the side of his jaw. “What just happened? You went all far away.”  
  
Killian shook his head, pushing thoughts and plans and schedules, romantic or otherwise, into the back corner of his brain. “Nothing,” he said, and Emma narrowed her eyes.

“You’re really, really bad at that.”  
  
“The making out? That’s disappointing.”   
  
Her eyes went even thinner, but there was a blush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there a few seconds before and Killian allowed himself to be slightly pleased by that. “That’s not even remotely what I was talking about,” Emma continued. “And if you’re thinking during the making out or whatever happens after the making out, then I think we’ve got problems.”   
  
“After the making out?”   
  
“You’re being difficult on purpose. I’m going to drink all your coffee.”   
  
“I’m perfectly capable of making coffee while you’re in the shower, love. I don’t think your threat holds much water.”

Emma made a noise at the absolutely awful pun, but Killian smiled, forgetting, for half a moment, the distinct lack of blood flow to his right hand. “That suggests, though,” Emma said slowly, moving her hips again and his eyes flew open, “that I’d be in the shower by myself.”  
  
Her eyes got brighter or greener and both of those things probably didn’t actually happen, but Killian couldn’t really think when her tongue pressed on the corner of her lips and he moved before he’d even actually considered it, mouth crashing against hers.

And he was totally wrong before.

He loved her more then. It seemed just keep growing or something equally absurd and romantic, like there was some kind of light in the center of everything that might have just been the sun reflecting off Emma’s hair.

It was, easily, the single most ridiculous thing he’d ever thought.

He was talking, mumbling words against her lips and her cheeks and the tip of her nose and when her eyes fluttered shut, he moved to her eyelashes, promising everything he could think of, every ridiculous thought he’d had in the last six months spilling out of him.

That wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t just supposed to start _professing_ things in the middle of whatever it was they were doing, but Killian wasn’t entirely convinced Emma heard him either, her breathing almost on the wrong side of her erratic as her hands kept moving across his back.

His hand was still stuck.

“Swan,” Killian mumbled, but her hands were back in his hair and she’d hooked her foot around his calf and he rocked against her out of instinct.

She inhaled sharply, hair _everywhere_ on the pillow underneath her and the chain around her neck had fallen to the side. “Stop talking,” Emma muttered, tugging on his hair lightly to try and pull him back towards her and he couldn't argue that.

He kissed her – like he was desperate for it and that was almost the completely honest truth, trying to breathe her in or occupy the same space or _whatever_ because neither one of those things mattered when Emma’s hands moved again, twisting in between them and her fingers weren’t nearly as cold as he expected them to be.

That was probably good.

He was already making enough noise as it was.

“Ok, ok,” Killian stammered, and that probably would have been embarrassing if Emma’s chest wasn’t moving quickly while she tried to catch her own breath. She moved again, teeth nipping at his lower lip when he fell back towards her and maybe there was a magnet there.

That almost would have made more sense.

He should stop thinking about magnets when her hand was wrapped around him.

“Swan,” he repeated, and she gaped at him like he couldn't believe he was _still_ talking. Neither could he, honestly. “Emma, love…”   
  
“No, it’s fine,” she said, answering a question he wasn’t sure he’d actually asked.

“What?”  
  
“Everything’s fine. We don’t need to worry about that. I, you know, took steps or whatever.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
Emma furrowed her eyebrows, a pinch on her forehead that was just as out of place as thoughts about magnets. “Wait, what are you talking about?”   
  
“What are you talking about?”

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, and she hadn’t actually moved her hand. That was making it difficult to talk. “I just...you don’t need to move is what I’m saying. And you really need to keep kissing me.”  
  
Killian grinned, something _lighter_ flashing through the center of him, but that could have just been him losing his mind when Emma’s hand twisted slightly and he was going to crush her if he didn’t move.

“Or, you know, you could just do that,” Emma grinned, staring at him like she’d just won a very particular type of challenge.

His entire right arm had gone numb. God _fucking_ damnit.

Killian tried to pull it loose, but Emma’s back was pressed into the mattress and her hips rolled again and the world seemed to fall off its axis for half a moment, both of them groaning. “Swan,” he tried again, and she actually glared at him. “I need my hand, love.”  
  
“What?”

He tapped his fingers against her back – or at least he tried, he wasn’t sure he’d actually moved them at all. He couldn’t feel them. “My hand,” he repeated. “This shouldn’t be quite as one-sided as it is currently.”  
  
Emma let out a quiet gasp, arching her back again and neither one of them had thought this out at all because the noise in the room was bordering close to strangled and seemed to echo off the walls and Killian pulled his arm back to his side with far too much force, wincing slightly when he managed to elbow himself in the hip.

“Ah, shit,” he grumbled, Emma’s gasp shifting into a laugh and they’d fallen right out of romantic into absurd.

She pulled her hand away – something he regretted far more than he should have – to cover her face, arm thrown over her eyes and her whole body shook with the force of her laughter.

“I can’t believe you just impaled yourself with your own elbow,” Emma said. “And here I thought you were just worried about being responsible.”  
  
Killian muttered something under his breath and, reasonably, he knew he hadn’t actually cracked his ribs, but his hand was tingling as the blood rushed back into his fingers and he couldn’t seem to stop twisting his wrist.

“I mean, yes,” he agreed. “But mostly I was trying to be a gentleman.”  
  
Emma quirked an eyebrow, one side of her mouth tugged up and if they were going to linger in absurd then the least they could do was have some fun. “How do you figure? You’re not wearing any clothes.”   
  
“I don’t think those two things explicitly go together.”   
  
“Explain yourself then, counselor.”   
  
He widened his eyes – that flash of _something_ on Emma’s face sending a shockwave of something else entirely down his spine – and let his head fall back towards her shoulder and her collarbone and she squirmed when his lips found her pulse point, teeth grazing across her skin and a fully-functioning hand grazing back across her thigh.

“Because,” Killian started. “If you’re going to wake up far earlier than you’re supposed to, without any clothes at all, in the middle of my bed, then I shouldn’t be the only one reaping the benefits. Only seems fair.”  
  
“You seem…” Her breath caught when his fingers moved, dragging across what felt like several miles of exposed skin and one of them must have gasped, but that might have been both of them too and Killian felt like his lungs collapsed when he realized how much she wanted right back.

“What, Swan? Exactly?”  
  
“I thought we weren’t talking. You’re not supposed to be talking.”   
  
“That was your demand, love. We’re trying something different for now. And correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the one talking and then trailing off?”   
  
He pulled back slightly to flash a grin at her and she nearly did glare at him again, but his hand shifted again and her eyes snapped shut and doing anything except kissing her seemed absolutely insane.

And Killian wasn’t insane.

He started talking again at some point, pulling his mouth away from hers to mumble words in her ear that might have just been _I love you_ over and over again, but he couldn’t remember a single word when he, somehow, ended up on his back and the ends of Emma’s hair brushed across his chest.

It was some kind of balancing act – trying to breathe at the same time he kept trying to touch every single inch of her and Emma’s teeth sunk into her lower lip when their bodies met, hair everywhere and eyes bright and breath ragged.

That might have been him.

He couldn't really tell.

And that felt important.

And he didn’t think about his hand – either one, but _especially_ the one that wasn’t actually connected to his body – once, Emma’s fingers brushing across his forearm and over scarred edges and she mumbled _I love you_ in his ear too.

There was more sunlight by the time their breathing fell back into a normal, human pattern, Emma’s head on his shoulder and his left arm wrapped tightly around her waist and she didn’t say anything about that either.

“I love you,” Killian said softly, the words tumbling out of him again and if he wasn’t careful he’d probably just tell her to move into his goddamn apartment.

He felt her smile, the sound of her ring moving when she tugged it on the chain and that might have been the first time he’d thought that. “Weird, I wasn’t picking up on that at all,” Emma laughed softly. “Tell me something.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Something,” she repeated. “Something good. Something day off and afterglow appropriate.”   
  
“Is that what this is?”   
  
“You tell me.”   
  
Killian hummed and they were back on their designated sides of the bed  – twisted around and blankets barely covering anything, but Emma’s hair was still everywhere and the quiet scrape of vaguely ancient ring on even more ancient chain was like a metronome, lulling him into contentment and happiness and something that might have just been joy.

“That’s some deafening silence over there,” she muttered. “I love you, too. Just for the record or on the record or whatever.”  
  
“Either one of those is fine, love,” Killian said, tugging her back to his side and kissing the top of her head. “Do you not count as something good?”   
  
She made some kind noise in the back of her throat, an objection or just general _disgruntled’ness_ and he’d probably never stop smiling or get out of bed. Her feet weren’t nearly as cold anymore.

“No,” Emma answered. “Those were the rules. I said tell me something and you made it all difficult because you think it’s cute.”  
  
“I think you think it’s cute.”   
  
“See, you just proved my point.”   
  
“You did tell me to stop talking earlier, love.”   
  
“That was different.”   
  
He mumbled a quiet _ehhhh_ under his breath, catching her hand in his own when she tried to smack across his chest. She bit her lip when he brushed his lips over her knuckles and down towards her wrist and they were on a very specific type of path.

Again.

God, he was never going to stop kissing her.

“Come on,” she pressed, digging her heel into his leg like that would make him start talking again. “You’ve got to have something.”  
  
“These are very loose rules you’re playing with, Swan. It’s an awfully generic start to things. And why exactly do I have to go first?”   
  
“You were the one going on about being a gentleman before.”   
  
“Ah, look who’s trying to twist scenarios to fit their current needs now.”   
  
Emma scowled at him, growling slightly and tugging her hand out of his grip. “Being. Difficult. On. Purpose.”   
  
“Ah, but it’s so much more fun when your cheeks go red, love,” he countered, tapping his thumb on the color to prove his point. She snapped her teeth at him. “Unless you can move your teeth up, Swan, I think my fingers are safe. And you wouldn’t want me to be without those, right?”   
  
He grinned at her – something bordering close to _lecherous_ and _needy_ , the feel of her against him doing things to his ability to function like a normal person. That might have just been _her_ though.

“Ok, fine,” Killian continued. “Something. Good, right?”

Emma nodded, dropping back down against his shoulder. “I mean, that’s preferable. You’d probably ruin the mood otherwise.”  
  
He tried to rack his brain for something decidedly good and hopeful and appropriate for the moment he’d found himself in.

Emma started tracing patterns across his stomach.

“I introduced Robin and Regina,” Killian said suddenly, and he wished sentences would stop just _exploding_ out of him or something less violent.

“For real?”  
  
“You weren’t very specific about the rules, Swan, but I’m fairly certain lying would be against them.”   
  
She huffed slightly, propping her head up on her hand and staring at him. “I’ve always kind of wondered about the timeline of that,” she admitted. “Roland is…”   
  
“Not Gina’s. At least genetically.”   
  
“Yeah...how does that work, exactly?” Killian lifted his eyebrows and Emma made another noise – but he was distracted by the addition of her tongue and she rolled her eyes dramatically. “That’s not even remotely what I meant.”   
  
“I’m honestly only doing it for the blush, Swan,” he chuckled, twisting his head so he could look straight at her. “And Robin was married. Before. He’s quite a bit older than me. Make sure to mention that when you see him again.”   
  
“I don’t think I’m going to do that.”   
  
“Spoilsport. Anyway, he’s old. As old as Liam...was.” He clicked his tongue, the _good_ in the story transforming into something decidedly _not good_ and there was a weight in the pit of his stomach trying to pull him into the mattress.

Emma smiled softly at him, moving her free hand back towards him and brushing over his hip. “Old. Married before. I got it. How’d he meet Regina?”  
  
“Me. We just went over this, Swan.”   
  
“You are an awful story-teller.”   
  
“That doesn’t bode well for the future of my career at all.”   
  
She did something almost painfully adorable with her nose, scrunched up and lips twisted slightly and the weight in his stomach disappeared entirely and immediately. “Scarlet already explained it. Liam and Robin served together in the Pacific, but Robin was discharged, honorably with a shit ton of medals and the collective gratitude of the entire United States Navy, before Liam. So he came to New York to start some kind of journalism life and live happily ever after with Marian, that was his wife by the way, and parent me.”   
  
“Parent you?”  
  
Killian hummed in agreement. “Probably until one of us dies.”

“This took a slightly macabre turn. This was supposed to be something good.”  
  
“Impressive word,” he mumbled, twisting on his side to try and trail kisses across her shoulder, but Emma stared at him meaningfully and he wasn’t getting out of this story. “Alright,” Killian continued. “So, Robin gets discharged. This was...more than a decade ago. And it was good. We were in school and then Scarlet and I graduated and Marian was ridiculously good at feeding us. Robin started writing and after I graduated Gina got me a bunch of freelance gigs at _The Post_ , but she was already at Mills.”

“There are a lot of characters in this story.”  
  
“You’ve just got to pay attention, Swan.”   
  
“It’s difficult when you keep trying to kiss me.”

Killian’s pulse stuttered or his heart grew eighty-six sizes and he _did_ kiss her, Emma sighing softly against him and he was willing to get distracted again.

She, however, seemed determined to hear the story. “C’mon,” Emma mumbled against his mouth. “You’re a story tease.”

“I’m just taking my time, love,” Killian argued. “Where were we? Right, right, Gina at Mills and Robin writing whatever gigs he could get. We went out one night, one of the rare times Gina was Gina after Daniel and the Locksleys came with us. That’s how Robin and Regina met.”  
  
“But he was married still.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“This is an awful story.”   
  
Killian sighed, widening his eyes and Emma waited, impatience rolling off her in almost visible waves. “It’s not like we told them to just start attack-kissing each other at the table, Swan,” he reasoned. “They met and that might have been the first time I can remember Gina laughing after Daniel died. So, it started becoming a thing. And then, well, Liam died and I bolted. Left New York as soon as the funeral was over and Gina asked me to stay and I didn’t, couldn't, not really, not when he was...I couldn’t stay.”   
  
“Yeah, I get that,” she said softly. “I haven’t actually been back to Storybrooke since I ran. I just...it never seemed right to come back.”   
  
She smiled slightly, the ends of her mouth quirking up and Killian swore he could feel it – the emotion and the feeling and the disappointment that came from _losing everything_ and there was no point in trying to decide when he loved her most because it just seemed to be a never-ending curve upwards.

Emma blinked quickly, taking a deep breath and tapping her fingers on his arm. “Keep going,” she said. “Please?”  
  
“So I left and I wandered around for years, collecting bylines and stories and I wasn’t here when Gina adopted Henry or when Roland was born or,” he took a deep breath, a very specific type of challenge he hadn’t expected, “when Marian died.”   
  
“That was right after Roland was born wasn’t it?”   
  
Killian’s eyes were going to fall out of his head. That was disgusting. And he couldn’t breathe. “How do you know that?”   
  
“Henry said that Robin and Regina had just gotten married when you got hurt,” she said. “And that Roland was really little. I can occasionally do math.”   
  
He let out a laugh and a breath of air he didn’t realize he’d been holding, fingers grazing over her side like he needed to keep touching her to prove she was real and listening and doing basic math on his behalf.

“That’s exactly right,” Killian said. “Roland was...barely even a few weeks old and there were complications and modern science isn’t really all that modern sometimes because they couldn’t figure it out and she was gone almost soon as they realized something was wrong.

Scarlet tried to get me to come home. Said I should be here and he was totally right of course, but I was in the middle of writing and New Orleans and I didn’t. Locksley had spent most of his life after the Navy making sure I didn’t accidentally stumble into traffic and I couldn’t be bothered to book a red eye.”  
  
Killian chewed on his lip, but Emma didn’t blink. She didn’t even look away from him. “That’s not true,” she whispered. “You were...there was a reason for it.”   
  
“I suppose,” he admitted, memories of Scarlet’s phone call after the funeral flashing in front of his eyes and he’d never heard that many curses in a single sentence in his life. “But, this is supposed to be a happy story isn’t it?”   
  
“Yeah, I think we’re lacking on that front.”   
  
He tried to smile, not sure if it worked until Emma met him with one of her own. “Well, Gina and Robin had been friends for a long time, my doing, and it wasn’t nearly as scandalous as it could have been. There was an appropriate waiting time or something less clinical and Gina just...fell into taking care of everything. She got Locksley out of his apartment and I think Rol’s first word might have actually been ‘Gina’ and they just sort of started?”   
  
“That was a question.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t here. Too busy not-quite-undercover.”   
  
Emma blinked at that. “What? Really?”   
  
“Eh, the not quite is the important part of that sentence, but you were right before, you know.”   
  
“About what?”   
  
“The things I did in New Orleans. They weren’t, technically, correct or ethical. It’s kind of a trend for me. And some kind of miracle I wasn’t actually arrested for breaking and entering several times. Or shot.”   
  
She gaped at him, exhaling loudly and Killian winced when he realized what he’d said. “This is a horrible story,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, we’ve covered that.”  
  
“But that’s kind of why I did them?” Killian asked, not sure why he was still phrasing everything in the form of a question. Probably because he’d never actually said any of this out loud. Emma waited for him to keep talking. “I left, Swan,” he explained. “They told me not to, that they were _here_ and the whole lot of them spent the next few years trying to get me to come home. Gina’s been promising me bylines at Mills since I was twenty-two, but I never came back and when I got to New Orleans I thought I was doing something important, something that could defeat some kind of evil or something, I don’t know that sounds dramatic.”   
  
“It does,” Emma agreed. “But it also kind of makes a shit ton of sense.”   
  
“That’s awfully eloquent of you, love.”   
  
“I’m serious. And I get that. You don’t think David and Mary Margaret have been trying me to come to New York for the last eight years? If there’s one person who understands wanting to pay someone back by working your ass off, I get it.”   
  
There were not enough words in the entire English language or the conversational French he still inexplicably knew to describe whatever emotion coursed through every inch of his body and he’d never been happier to have common ground with another human being.

He should really tell her just to move into his apartment.

“I love you,” he said instead, and the flush in Emma’s cheeks got _redder_ and more distracting and she definitely moved first that time, surging up to kiss him and he felt her everywhere.

“Keep telling the story, Jones,” she muttered, half a breath away from him.

“I honestly can’t remember where I was.”  
  
“First names and sentences as questions when they probably should have just been statements.”   
  
“Right, right,” he nodded. “So that’s how I got all those stories and I thought I was doing something good, honor Liam or make him proud of me and somehow Locksley wouldn’t totally resent me for not coming home and then it was...July? I get a call from Gina telling me that she and Locksley aren’t just dating, but they’re engaged and they’re getting married next week and I’ve been summoned as best man and if I didn’t show up she’d have me murdered. She felt bad about that later.”   
  
Emma’s laugh was shaky and tinted with something that might have been incredulity at his piss-poor attempt at a joke, but she was still smiling and he kept talking.

“I went, obviously, and they got married at City Hall and I think that’s the only time Gina’s ever bought anything off the rack, but it was decidedly under the radar, at the risk of drawing Cora’s fury and we went back to that bar where they met a million and two years ago and got drunk on incredibly shitty whiskey because Scarlet demanded it and that might have been the first time I’d laughed since Liam died.”  
  
He bit his lip again, staring at the wall just over Emma’s shoulder and the sunlight and her hair brushed his forearm when she tried to hop towards him on her side. “That wasn’t such a bad story,” she said softly.

“They’re ridiculously happy. I know it doesn’t...Gina is, well, she’s Gina and she can be kind of a lot and I’m fairly certain that Locksley still thinks he’s my actual father, but every absurd family cliché I’ve got is because of them.”  
  
“They’re your Mary Margaret and David.”   
  
“Absolutely,” Killian agreed. “I was almost surprised Gina didn’t try and decorate this apartment herself. There’s supposed to be an XBox or a PlayStation or something here eventually so Henry and Rol don’t mutiny when they come up here.”   
  
‘Would they come up here a lot?”   
  
“Eh, probably not, but, uh…”   
  
“What?”

“I’m their not parental, parental guardian,” he said, and Emma didn’t look nearly as stunned as he expected her to be.

“Jeez, of course you are.”  
  
“Well, they couldn’t let Scarlet do it. He’s got questionable morals and murder boards in his apartment.”   
  
“You left the murder board in his apartment,” Emma pointed out. “On purpose. To impress me.”   
  
“You’ll find I’m almost consistently trying to do that, Swan.”

It sounded more like an admission than it should have, but it was also the absolute truth and, eventually, maybe he’d feel like he’d done enough or was enough or had actually repented and Liam would have liked Emma.

He would have liked Henry and Roland and he would have told both Regina and Robin to pick Killian as their kid’s not-parental guardian. And he would have laughed in Scarlet’s face about it.

Shit.

Killian could feel his face fall, the fingers that had been tracing across his side stilling and Emma pressed a kiss to his cheek. He stopped breathing.    
  
“You know you didn’t do anything wrong, right?” she asked, and Killian hummed when he didn’t understand the question. “I mean, technically, yeah, you did, but the bylines and the work in New Orleans was good. Obviously. It won awards. Just because whatever is happening now is happening now doesn’t automatically negate that.”

They were never going to get out of bed.

He was going to tell her every single ridiculous, romantic thing he’d thought since he’d walked into Granny’s.

Or he’d just be stunned silent.

“Didn’t hit the mark at all, huh?” Emma mumbled, flopping back on the pillow and knocking off a blanket and something that might have been her phone buzzed in the kitchen.

“No,” Killian said. “Bullseye, actually. I wasn’t aware you were some kind of mind reader, love.”

She pulled her lips back behind her teeth tightly, that pinch back between her eyebrows and he resisted the urge to kiss it away. “It’s weird, don’t you think?”  
  
“What? The cockroach-like tendencies of drug lords?”   
  
“No, no, I just mean, none of this makes any sense, but it all kind of makes sense and if Neal...well, if Neal has really been working for Gold this whole time, then we’re...I don’t know, connected is so lame.”   
  
“That’s not lame,” he murmured, brushing the hair out of her eyes and her feet were twisted up with his again. “That’s a good story.”   
  
“I don’t know how it ends.”   
  
“With the bad guys going to jail and the good guys living happily ever after.”

“Sounds simple.”  
  
“It’s the opposite of that,” Killian sighed. “But I’m something almost close to confident. They’re going to bring Hans in and he’s going to answer questions or there’ll be evidence and he won’t have to answer questions and David will get eighty-two medals and you guys will win several million dollars and there you go, happily ever after.”   
  
“And where do you fit into that, exactly?” Emma asked, and it felt like the biggest question in the world. With the easiest answer.

“Right here.”

“Good answer.”  
  
“Honest,” he said, and _that_ felt like some kind of promise. “Was there some kind of mention of showers at some point, Swan? And coffee? Or was I imagining that?”  
  
“I don’t remember mentioning coffee at all,” she laughed, nudging against his shoulder and the mattress shook when he dropped down on his back.

And they didn’t actually get out of bed for, at least, another two hours, sunlight nearly blinding and Emma’s stomach growled when they were actually in the shower, a mess of limbs and that vanilla shower gel that she’d just left there, but his laugh turned into a groan eventually.

They ran out of hot water.

He wasn’t aware that was something that actually still happened.

Killian was in the middle of pouring coffee and looking for a full container of cinnamon when Emma’s phone buzzed again, forgotten, as it was on the counter the night before. “You’ve got to answer that, love,” he said, nodding towards the flashing piece of plastic. “I think you’ve got a hundred text messages.”  
  
“You think that’s even possible?” Emma asked, jumping onto the counter and taking the outstretched mug from his hand.

“Yes, because you’re living that life right now.”

She grumbled under her breath, but grabbed her phone from behind the toaster and her knuckles went white around the handle of the mug. “Swan,” Killian continued, taking a step towards her and resting his left hand on her knee. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“You need to call Regina.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Emma waved her phone through the air, the exasperation on her face a stark contrast from everything else that had happened since either of them woke up. “Regina. Right now. Henry’s texting me to tell me. Said she’s been trying to call you all day.”   
  
“Ok,” Killian said warily, steps just a bit more measured as he turned back towards the bedroom and tried to keep his stomach in its biologically-appropriate place.

He had one hundred and four text messages.

And sixteen voice mails.

Every single one of them was from Regina.

He didn’t listen to any of them.

And the phone barely rang before she answered, the _fury_ radiating through the line or the cloud or however phone lines worked. “Where the hell are you?” Regina snapped. “And how quickly can you get downtown?”   
  
Killian sank onto the edge of the bed, blankets still piled in a heap halfway onto the floor. “I’m home, Gina,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Where I plan on being for the foreseeable future. I am off today. The last round story did great. A already told me. You owe me a day.”   
  
“I owe you absolutely nothing. And you need to get the fuck down here. Now. Twenty minutes ago, honestly, but also now.”   
  
“No.”   
  
She hissed into the phone and he could almost picture her perfectly in her office, the glare she was likely shooting into open air – or possibly just at Aurora – and how she’d hold herself up to her full height and, fuck, he was going to have to go downtown. “Killian Jones,” she muttered, the command in her voice obvious.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he complained. “I’ll be there. Am I allowed to eat breakfast?”  
  
“It’s nearly noon.”   
  
“That is not an answer.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Regina moaned, the creak of her office chair clear as day in the background. “That is, honestly, the last thing I needed to know.”   
  
“Really? That? That’s the last thing you needed to know? In the entire word?”   
  
“Asshole, ass, bastard, cretin, rogue, rascal, cad.”

He smiled. “I’m almost offended by cad, but I’ll accept it since you sound stressed out. You want coffee or you want me to just apparate to your office?”  
  
“I don’t know why I deal with you,” Regina sighed, and Killian could dimly hear Emma humming in the kitchen, refrigerator door opening and closing six different times.

“Because you’re a benevolent ruler, your majesty.”  
  
“Swine.”   
  
“That’s a good one. Don’t let Scarlet steal that one from you.”   
  
“And don’t come to my office.”   
  
Killian tilted his head, the warning he could just barely hear in Regina’s voice giving him pause. “You want me to come downtown, but you don’t want me to come to your office?”   
  
She clicked her tongue, but it sounded a bit like a sigh. “The conference room. Soon, Killian, please. Don’t bring coffee, she’ll probably throw it at you.”

“She?”  
  
“Soon.”   
  
The line went dead – or she just hung up or maybe Cora cut the phone wire and that almost made the most sense, but whatever tiny, little bubble of sunshine and ease he and Emma had manage to build in that apartment seemed to burst right in front of Killian’s eyes.

“God damnit,” he mumbled, dropping his phone on the corner of blanket next to him and he heard the footsteps in the hallway before he actually saw her.

She was mixing something.

God damnit. Again.

“Hey,” Emma said, a hint of a smile tugging on her mouth. “So much for day off, huh?”  
  
“You’ve got to stop reading my mind, Swan.”   
  
“Nah, that was Henry. He’s worried.”   
  
“About?”   
  
She took a deep breath, the spoon in her hand stilling as she leaned against the open door frame. “I mean, throw a dart, there were a lot of text messages. But he said Regina basically ran out of the apartment this morning and, his words, she had _that_ face on, which I’m assuming means something to you.”   
  
“It usually means Henry’s in trouble.”   
  
“Ah, that explains the terror via text message.”   
  
Killian laughed, but it didn’t sound quite genuine and he needed to find actual pants. “What are you making?”   
  
“Was making, past tense,” Emma corrected, taking a step into the room and dropping down next to him. “I thought I’d try that ricotta pancake thing we found a couple nights ago. You’re supposed to let it rest for some ridiculous amount of time though, so, no dice.”   
  
“I’m not kicking you out, love.”   
  
“You’re leaving.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”   
  
His heart hammered against his rib cage hard enough that he was certain he could feel it in between his eyes and possibly his ears and Killian turned his head slowly, hoping to see _something_ on Emma’s face.   
  
He did – and then some.

“Yeah?” she asked softly, and he nodded before she’d even closed her mouth.

“I’ll be back soon. Couple hours, tops. I can bring coffee.”  
  
“We already made coffee.”   
  
“I’ll bring more.”

Emma smiled – genuine and honest and she was wearing one of his shirts. “That seems fair,” she said. “There’ll be pancakes when you get back. Put on pants before you go downtown.”

“Deal.”

It took what felt like several eternities to get downtown, his toe nearly putting a hole through the floor of the car he’d called and the new receptionist – who Killian was certain had a name, but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember – looked like at him like he was being marched to the gallows as soon as he swung open the door.

“Conference room,” she instructed, and Killian nodded, stabbing his finger into the elevator button.

Cora was sitting at the head of the table when he walked into the room, Regina on her right side and a pile of papers on her left. No Robin. No Will. No Ariel.

Fuck.

“You certainly took your time getting here,” Cora said, eyeing him with something that felt like disdain. “Interesting.”  
  
“Is it?” Killian asked. He didn’t take another step and Regina rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, shoulders moving slightly when she took a deep breath.

Cora hummed, what was probably supposed to be a smile flashing across her face. She pressed both her hand flat on the table, sitting up straighter and, well, that was where Regina learned that. Killian didn’t say that out loud.

“Incredibly,” Cora continued, breathing out the word like a threat and an insult all rolled into one.

And something in the back corner of Killian’s mind seemed to snap, lips pressed tightly together and he tried to breathe through his nose.

It didn’t work.

“Is there a point to this?” he asked, ignoring Regina’s sigh or the way she pressed her fingers into her temple. “I’ve got things to do.”  
  
Cora laughed. “Stories? Or people?”   
  
He saw red, right hand fisted at his side and he might have actually broken skin when his nails dug into his palm. “You’re going to want to consider your next few words very carefully, Cora,” he seethed.

She kept laughing.

“What exactly do you think is going on here, Mr. Jones?”  
  
“You’re losing money, still,” he said. “And you’re in way over your head with your brand-new board member and his murderous tendencies and decidedly illegal activity.” Cora stopped laughing and Regina looked like she’d frozen, gaping open-mouthed at Killian. He wasn’t convinced this wasn’t just some convoluted dream.

“Yeah, you think I didn’t realize that?” he asked. “Please. Did you know when you brought Gold in, Cora? What he’d done? What he’s willing to do when he doesn’t get his way? He’s a bit desperate now, isn’t he? The stories keep hitting and Wail keeps winning and people like them. A hell of a lot more than Second Star.”  
  
“I don’t care about that,” Cora said, practically snarling the words at him.

“No?”  
  
“I couldn’t care less about anything that happens outside this building or anything that doesn’t, somehow, get me money.”   
  
“Is that what he is then? You bring Gold in as a board member and he, what, feeds you cash under the table?”

“Killian,” Regina warned, but he shook his head, finally taking a step into the room and leaning against the table until it pressed against his spleen. Or maybe his liver.

“Is that what’s going on?” Killian asked, voice turning just a bit manic and there was not enough gravity in that conference room because he felt like he was floating just a bit. “You’re just being bribed now, Cora? Shit, how the mighty have fallen, huh?”  
  
Cora didn’t say anything, just sat still as stone on the opposite end of the table and waited for Killian to keep talking.

He did.

He couldn’t seem to stop.

And Regina looked slightly green.

“So, tell me something,” Killian pressed, and the table was actually starting to hurt whatever internal organ it was pressed into. “How am I still here?”  
  
Cora quirked an eyebrow. Regina closed her eyes.

“If you’re just playing Gold’s lackey, then he’d want me out,” Killian continued. “It doesn’t make any sense for me to still be here. Oh,” he sighed as soon as it clicked, another nearly audible _snap_ in the back of his mind. “He didn’t know the stories were going to happen until they already were, so he’s got you playing clean-up duty. Ah, that’s even worse than generic lackey isn’t it?”

“Stop talking,” Regina hissed, but he flashed her a smile and it almost made _too_ much sense.

Killian took another step, moving around the table and coming up just short of Cora. “What is exactly you’ve been tasked with telling me to do now, Cora?”  
  
She looked like she was moving in slow motion, twisting the entire chair when she turned back towards him and she hadn’t actually lowered her eyebrow.

“You made a mistake,” she said simply. “Several dozen over the course of all of this and a few more in just New Orleans, but the mistakes you’ve made since you came back to this city are even worse.”  
  
“You’re stalling,” Killian accused. “It was an easy question. Give me my marching orders, Cora.”   
  
Her eyes flashed – far too much like Regina’s to be entirely comforting and Killian pressed his heels into the ground, fingers finding the top of his brace out of habit. Cora noticed.

“That angle,” she said slowly, enunciating every letter until Killian was convinced they were trying to cut their way into the very center of him. “You must know what it is by now. There’s been...let’s say some talk about your out of office decisions. That was one of those mistakes I mentioned before.”  
  
Killian locked his knees, eyes going wide before he could stop himself and they hadn’t really done anything to hide it, but it was like the words were suddenly a red, hot wire in the very center of him and, maybe, the entire building shifted on its foundation.

“Stop it,” Regina muttered again. Killian had no idea who she was talking to.

“Actual words, Cora,” Killian growled. “Use actual fucking words.”  
  
The other eyebrow joined the first one, the smile _inching_ across her face as she crossed her legs and nearly kicked him in the process. “Your girlfriend,” she said. “She’s got quite an interesting backstory doesn’t she? Strange you haven’t written about that yet.”   
  
The building wasn’t moving.

It was collapsing.

On top of him.

“No,” Killian said, and Cora’s smile grew more pronounced. He couldn’t breathe.

“No,” she echoed. “That’s your job, Mr. Jones. You write about this team and draw the hits and you get to keep your job. Now, there’s been some discussion amongst the board recently that you’re letting your personal interest in this story cloud your judgements. We’ve circled back to those mistakes I mentioned before.”  
  
“I’m not doing that. The stories are hitting, Cora. You’re pulling revenue and a whole new audience. If Gold wasn’t trying to control everything and Wail could keep up its social media attack, you’d be pulling even more, but you’re you, so you’re not looking big picture.”   
  
“And you are? Tell me something, Mr. Jones when this all falls apart at your feet and you’re on the wrong side, again, what happens then?”   
  
He felt like he’d swallowed, at least, seventy-six knives, all of them cutting their way down his throat and into his stomach and Killian’s eyes darted towards Regina before he could stop himself, her face still tinged green with something that looked like disbelief etched into the crinkles around her eyes.

“No,” she said softly, shaking her head and Killian could taste bile in the back of his throat when he swallowed against the metaphorical knives.

It hurt like hell.

“What do you mean, again?” he breathed. That hurt too.

Cora looked surprised, eyes going wide when she realized what she’d said and Killian almost wished the building would collapse so he’d have something to blame the rushing in his ears on.

“The look on your face seems to suggest you already know,” she muttered, and he did. He knew exactly.

And Robert Gold was a goddamn, fucking drug lord, criminal emperor and he’d tried to run Killian over with a goddamn, fucking car.

He’d killed Milah.

Killian took a deep breath, ragged and his lungs burned with the effort of it, but his knees hadn’t actually given out yet and Emma was still sitting his apartment uptown. She was making pancakes. They were going to go to the store later.

He was going to bring her coffee.   
  
And then they were going to live happily ever after.

It was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

It had to be.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Killian said, the lie so obvious it nearly turned back around and slapped him in the face. “And you can tell your board and your boss that I’m not writing that. That’s not part of the story.”  
  
“No?” Cora scoffed. “Seems awfully interesting. Maybe even a bit underdog. Don’t you think your readers have a right to know who they’re, as you pointed out, rooting so strongly for?”   
  
“I’m not doing it.”   
  
“Ah, but that’s the rub isn’t it? It’s not really up to you. You work here. You signed a contract to work here. You need a byline, Mr. Jones.”   
  
“Listen to the actual words that I am saying to you Cora. I am not doing it. I don’t care what you’re vaguely threatening or suggesting. I’m not writing that story. I won’t do that to Emma.”   
_  
God damn_.

Regina sighed, her whole head falling forward with the force of the sound and Cora’s laugh seemed to echo inside his head long after she stopped.

“Ah,” Cora grinned. “Some truth to the talk then. I thought so. Does she know?”  
  
“Stop it.”   
  
“She must. It was like you were trying to broadcast it when you brought her to the party. Why would you do that? I’ve been wondering that for months.”   
  
“That’s not any of your business, Cora. Have the stories been biased? Have they not hit every mark you’ve set? You’re making money on this. You don’t even have to lift a finger. Gina runs your entire goddamn site for you. Why agree to any of this?”

Cora opened her mouth – some sarcastic answer no doubt on the tip of her tongue – but Regina answered. “It’s still not enough,” she said, rushing over the words before she got interrupted. “Even if you hit four hundred, it wouldn't even be close to enough. She’s run this site into the ground. The only person who could help was Gold. He just didn’t get here in time to put a stop to the features and you’d already agreed to the hit marker to try and play hero.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, Regina’s _sass_ entirely out of place in whatever was happening. “You know why I did that,” he muttered.

“I know,” she nodded.

“I’m not doing it, I’m not writing that,” Killian repeated, turning back towards Cora and the next question hit him with the force of several different Subway lines. “Why now?”  
  
Cora tilted her head. “Excuse me?”   
  
“You’ve had this angle since Christmas, known about it since then. Gold’s known about it, I’d assume, for the last decade. So why now? Why wait until right before the final to play this card?”

She didn’t say anything, probably couldn’t say anything and Emma’s voice seemed to mumble in his ear –  _he’s getting desperate_.

“Right,” Killian said, still talking. “This is all he’s got left then, huh? It’s all falling apart and the police are breathing down his neck. They get Hans the sleazy lawyer yet? They’ve got to be close.” Cora pressed her lips together. And he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Isn’t he even remotely worried about what this would do to Cassidy if it got out?” Cora’s eyes widened, and Regina kept making noises, a mix between groans and sighs and something that sounded dangerously close to her disciplining Henry and Roland.

“Oh, does he not think I know about Cassidy?” Killian pressed. “That’s actually almost funny. Of course, it helps that Cassidy’s got twenty different aliases and no record and it’s just Emma’s word, right? That’s a mistake on his part.

So, what, this story gets out and people turn on Emma for her year in jail? Gold must not think he can make any money on the lines if people actually believe Wail can win. And he can’t have that, obviously. He must have took it hard after New Orleans fell, huh? That’s kind of comforting. How exactly does he expect to run some kind of drug empire if he can’t even contend with a couple of feature stories? Insert cliché about the power of the press here.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Regina groaned.

Killian chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels. Cora stared at him for half a moment, appraising him like she was taking stock and it took, what felt like, ten hours for her to stand up.  

“Write this story,” she challenged, and it sounded exactly like the threat it was. “Or get out.”  
  
His eyes darted towards Regina, still sitting, but she’d pulled her arms back to her side and he barely saw her nod.

“Fine,” Killian said. “I quit.”

Cora blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I quit. Would you like to actually rip up my contract in front of me or you want to save that for a private moment on your own? Or maybe in front of Gold so he knows you’ve done your job?”  
  
“You can’t quit.”   
  
“Why not? Isn’t that what you wanted?” Killian asked, smiling when Cora fell back into the chair, the wheels squeaking on the tiled floor. “Oh, it’s not is it? Cora did you honestly expect me to write this story? What for? To save my byline?”   
  
She shook her head, but it didn’t feel like the objection it probably should have been. “Another mistake, Jones. You chose her. And the consequences of that decision.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, Regina’s gaze darting between Cora and Killian and he didn’t move, the smile on his face feeling unnatural and forced, but his response seemed to just fall out of him, as easy as telling Emma he’d loved her that morning.   
  
“Every single time,” Killian said, walking out the door and leaving Cora Mills stunned in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romance! Evil people being consistently and constantly evil! We're coming down the home stretch here and things are going to start coming to a vaguely dramatic head. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for sticking with this and reading it and sending some incredibly nice comments my way. It's honestly the best. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down, where I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) because the world is awful and stressful and we should all be making out more.


	28. Chapter 28

She couldn't seem to sit still.

Or sit, really.

She just kept moving and pacing and ignoring her phone complete. There had been more text messages aside from Henry – who Emma realized, rather belatedly, should probably be in school because it was a Wednesday in March – but she’d barely even glanced at the names before she answered Henry and, God, she was absolutely the worst influence in the world.

No wonder no one had ever asked her to be a not-quite parental, parental guardian.

And Mary Margaret and David were far too busy parenting her to worry about having their own kids.

Plus, well, David was only recently able to start walking again without wincing and they were keeping him on desk duty for at least another four weeks – Emma glad she wasn’t in the apartment to hear his grumbling over _that_ – and maybe she should answer Mary Margaret’s vaguely frantic texts because now she kind of felt like an asshole.

It was far too quiet in the apartment.

And far too big.

There was so much square footage in that goddamn apartment – an actual hallway that took more than a few steps to walk down, or stumble down while tearing each other’s clothes off, which seemed to happen more often than not since Killian had moved into the apartment and Emma just kept coming uptown.

She barely had any clothes left in Mary Margaret and David’s living room and they’d actually folded up the air mattress weeks ago, David muttering something about how he was _going to trip over it and die_ and both Emma and Mary Margaret had groaned loudly.

He smiled.

And then tried to drink more coffee.

He still wasn’t supposed to drink coffee. Something about acid and stitches and neither one of those things going together well.

Emma had only been half listening to that. She kept only half listening, brain always focused on, at least, eighty-six different things at once and maybe the reason she kept coming uptown – and leaving shower gel in the shower, _jeez_ – was because it was the only place she could ever actually hear herself think on one single thing.

_Happily ever after_.

The words had been bouncing around her very distracted brain since Killian had muttered them in her ear and Emma almost believed it – quickly and easily and it made sense in the middle of a questionably large bed in a questionably large apartment in Manhattan, but then the phone rang or buzzed or _whatever_ and he went downtown and told her to stay there by herself like that wasn’t some kind of absolutely enormous, huge, _thing_.

She left her shower gel in his shower. All the time. For, like, the last two weeks.

And she wanted and, maybe, needed just a little bit, and both of those things terrified Emma to the very center of her because she loved him, completely and maybe just a little _ridiculously_ and she knew he was just as nervous as she was, but then he’d turn and look at her like she was every star in every single solar system and she forgot how to breathe.

God, this needed to work.

She needed to believe that this could work and it wouldn’t just all blow up in her face.

She needed to buy more shower gel.

Emma jumped when her phone started ringing again, one hand flying to her chest and the other gripping the coffee mug in her hand tight enough that her knuckles actually cracked.

She was a walking, jumping, emotional disaster.

And she’d drank nearly an entire pot of coffee by herself. They should buy more cinnamon too. She should make a list.

Her phone stopped ringing long enough to start again and whoever was trying to talk to here was persistent. Emma exhaled, downing the rest of her now lukewarm, not-quite cinnamon’y enough coffee and grabbed the phone off the table in front of her, tucking her feet under her when she fell onto the couch.

“Oh shit,” Emma sighed. Mary Margaret was calling her. Incessantly. Non-stop.

She wasn’t just an asshole – she was the _ultimate_ asshole. She should ask Scarlet for more detailed insults and then write them down on one of those lists she was, eventually, going to make and then hand that list to Mary Margaret so she could just go down every one.

Mary Margaret would never do that.

Damn.

Emma huffed, licking her lips and it had been more than a few hours since Killian had left. She tried not to dwell on that when she swiped her thumb across her phone screen.

“Hey,” she said, doing her best to infuse a several paragraph apology into three letters. “So, uh, would you believe I’m just a complete jerk?”  
  
Mary Margaret scoffed on the other end of the phone, kids yelling in the background and what sounded like several hundred pairs of feet sprinting towards town cars and after-school activities and maybe she could find Henry.

Emma wanted to make sure Henry was ok.

“You are not a complete jerk,” Mary Margaret promised quickly, but there was a note of something just on the edge of her voice and Emma sat up a bit straighter.

“What’s going on right now?”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“M’s, for real?” Emma asked, the laughter in her question edging dangerously close to manic. “I wake up to nearly a hundred text messages from just about everyone I know and Henry telling me that Regina needs Killian to come downtown on his day off and she’s got some kind of face and he left, like, nearly four hours ago and now the pancakes are going to suck because Ina Garten said they needed to rest, but, you know, I don’t think she meant half the day.”   
  
“Where does Ina Garten fit into this conversation?”   
  
“It’s her pancake recipe.”   
  
“I’m going to pretend like that makes sense.”   
  
“Mary Margaret you called me,” Emma accused, and this apology phone call was not going according to plan. “Were you just calling me in the middle of classes all day?”   
  
There was another noise on the phone – not quite a scoff, inching closer to a sigh and Emma’s stomach seemed to roll in rhythm with her pulse, which, if she wasn’t so goddamn worried, probably would have been impressive.

“I was not calling you in the middle of classes,” Mary Margaret said. “In between classes. Obviously. Like a responsible teacher who teachers her classes. And did you say Henry was texting you?”  
  
“Yeah. To get Killian to go downtown.”   
  
“And he couldn’t tell Killian that himself?”   
  
Emma let her head drop back against the top of the couch, wincing slightly when it hit what felt like half a dozen different spots on her skull. “This conversation is going in circles,” she grumbled. “And I don’t know why Killian had to go downtown or why Regina had a face if either one of those were your follow-ups, just that he’s been gone for awhile now.”   
  
“That was good journalism jargon,” Mary Margaret laughed, and Emma didn’t move her head. She resisted the urge to just _flop_ across the rest of the couch. “And neither one of those were my follow-ups actually, although I will admit to being kind of confused by the whole Regina has a face thing.”   
  
“Killian claimed it was the kind of face that usually accompanied a grounding.”   
  
Mary Margaret let out a soft _ah_ and Emma slid further into the corner of the couch, twisting her legs until she was, almost, still comfortable. “What were your follow-ups then?” Emma pressed. “If it wasn’t about Regina’s face.”

Silence.

Prolonged, decidedly uncomfortable silence.

Emma widened her eyes – well aware that Mary Margaret couldn't actually see her. “You work in a very noisy school,” she said, desperate for some kind of sound and her voice seemed to bounce off the walls of an apartment that wasn’t actually hers. “And you’re freaking me out.”  
  
Mary Margaret sighed, a door closing and the noise of no-longer-in-school kids just a bit muffled. “I’m doing this very wrong then,” she muttered. “It’s because you didn’t answer your phone and don’t tell me why you didn’t answer your phone, I’m painfully aware of all the reasons.”   
  
“I’m sorry for breaking curfew, Mom,” Emma laughed, some of that earlier happiness she’d felt, inching back into the very center of her. “Next time I’ll call.”   
  
“You don’t really have to do that. I’m...happy? For you?”   
  
“Is that a question?”   
  
“No, well, yeah, it was, but that’s because I’m doing this whole conversation wrong. You know I made a list of all the points I wanted to hit during my planning period because you didn’t answer phone calls five through eight.”

“What time is your planning period?”

“Eleven’ish.”  
  
“Yeah, I was kind of busy.”   
  
Mary Margaret made some kind of strangled noise and Emma grabbed a pillow off the floor, lifting her head just enough to stuff it underneath her neck when she flipped her legs over the back of the couch. “Don’t tell David that,” she said, but she sounded like she was still trying not to laugh too loudly. “He’ll have some kind of conniption and break his stitches and I think Lance will have an actual coronary if he has to call an ambulance for him again.”   
  
“I promise not to tell David about anything that I may or may not be doing with my boyfriend.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked, confusion mixing in with the happiness and the anxiety and it must be nearly four o’clock.

She should just call him.

She needed to figure out what was on Mary Margaret’s list. And maybe find some real clothes. This was the worst day off in the history of the entire world.

“That is the first time in the entire history of Emma Swan that I’ve ever heard you actually say that word out loud,” Mary Margaret said. “I don’t think you even let yourself call David my boyfriend when we were kids. You just referred to him as that guy I wanted to make out with.”  
  
“To be fair, that’s because you wanted to make out with my brother,” Emma reasoned. “And, come on, that can’t possibly be true.”   
  
“It is the truest truth that has ever been spoken.”   
  
“Seems a little bit like an exaggeration.”   
  
“Nope,” Mary Margaret said, popping her lips on the single syllable. “Ask Ruby about it, she’ll only be too happy tell you.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s the last thing thing I want to do. I don’t need to be reminded of all my ethical misgivings over the last couple of months.”   
  
“She wouldn’t do that.”   
  
“She would and she would enjoy it.”   
  
Mary Margaret clicked her tongue, an argument without actually arguing and Emma felt like she was sixteen and actually talking to her mother. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she liked to make it out to be.

“M’s,” Emma said. “I’m going to need you to get to the point of this conversation because I actually haven’t eaten anything since the pancake debacle and I’m kind of treading close to starving territory.”  
  
“You haven’t eaten anything yet today?”

“Oh my God.”  
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” Mary Margaret said quickly and she was probably waving her hands through the air too. “I almost can’t believe David hasn’t broken into police records, found Killian’s address and sent Lance to just tell you.

Emma opened her mouth to suggest that David wouldn’t misuse police resources like that, but he absolutely would and if something big was going on then she was almost surprised that exact scenario hadn’t played out.

“This is the most roundabout phone call that has ever happened,” Emma muttered, working a quiet laugh out of Mary Margaret. “What happened? Did something happen with the case? Can you actually be calling me about the case?”  
  
“At this point, I honestly don’t even know how any of the rules work when it comes to open cases, but I’m fairly certain I know a lot more than I’m supposed to and, now, I’m going to tell you. David didn’t tell me I couldn’t, so here we are.”   
  
“Would it have made a difference if he did?”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret answered immediately. “This is...you’re happy, Emma. The happiest I have ever seen you, which is just insane considering everything that’s happened in the last six months, but you’re using the word boyfriend and you’re basically living uptown and, so, screw the rules and every law that I’m probably breaking right now, you deserve to know.”   
  
Emma blinked, staring at the ceiling like it would just start to crumble because it was entirely possible that this was just the end of the world.

Mary Margaret said the word _screw_ out loud – and she wasn’t talking about hardware.

There was probably an asteroid heading for them or something.

And maybe she’d been thinking about how big that apartment was and how much closet space Killian had just offered up and she had her own side of the bed and a specific hook on the coat rack hooked over the bedroom door and they’d just kind of fallen into this domesticity.

It was nice.

It was happy.

“Mary Margaret,” Emma muttered, something that felt like awe in her voice and more laughter on the other end of the phone. “That is easily the most intense thing you’ve ever said.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you used the word _boyfriend_ in a real life conversation and slapped Neal a couple weeks ago, so, you know, in the grand scheme….”   
  
“Tell me why David is thinking about sending Lance to Killian’s apartment.”   
  
“In theory.”   
  
“Yes.”

“They arrested Hans.”  
  
Emma nearly fell off the couch. And after so much dancing around the subject – a weird twist and turn of a conversation with several uses of the word _boyfriend_ out loud and, maybe, a few hopes for a future that Emma found herself wanting more and more – she was stunned that Mary Margaret had just...said it.

Like it wasn’t a huge _fucking_ deal.

She was pacing again, off the couch before she realized she’d even moved her legs and mumbling something that might have been words under her breath and Mary Margaret was trying to get her attention.

“Sit down,” Mary Margaret muttered, not a command, but a suggestion and Emma’s knees bent out of instinct. “Are you sitting again?”

“Yes, Mom.”  
  
“Breathing? In through your nose and out through your mouth? You’ve got to inhale for three counts and then keep your lips pressed together when you breathe out.”   
  
“I promise I am breathing, M’s,” Emma said, and she was, but her pulse was still doing something decidedly erratic in her veins. “When did this happen?”   
  
“The arrest? Late yesterday. If David does mention this, which he totally will, I know it, don’t bring up how Lance went with some other detective to actually arrest Hans the sleazy lawyer at his office and he had to stay at his desk because of his stitches.”

“When does he get those out?” Emma asked absently, falling back into _normal_ in the middle of a decidedly _not normal_ conversation.

“The ones in his body dissolve. The future is now or something. But the other ones, the ones I’m also fairly certain he’s going to rip if he keeps playing Ruby in MarioKart every night, come out in a week.”  
  
Emma felt a flash of guilt shoot down her spine – barely home and, huh, well, if she was going to use words she rarely used, then home seemed to fall into the trend. And she’d nearly called it _her_ apartment.

Mary Margaret probably knew that too.

“Ok, ok,” Emma said, pressing her feet into the floor so she wouldn’t be tempted to start pacing again. “So this all happened last night? How? I thought they couldn’t get anything to stick. Hans has been back in New York for two weeks now.”  
  
“The law is painfully slow or something. Don’t tell David I told you that either.”   
  
“Should I be writing these rules down?”   
  
“No, don’t be sarcastic. I don’t know the specifics of it because, you know, rules and he was definitely in the precinct and at his desk, so when he comes home later I can get you more details, but the short of it is that the other guy, Killian’s source, he got something, a boarding pass or a paper trail or whatever and it proved that Hans had been in New Orleans.”

“We knew that already,” Emma interrupted, and Mary Margaret snapped her jaw impatiently. “Sorry, sorry, keep going.”  
  
“Yes, we knew that he went to New Orleans, but what they didn’t know and, what I’m assuming took them some time, was security footage of Hans at Wesselton’s pier or whatever. With Wesselton there. And neither one of them looking particularly happy with the other. Or particularly unbloodied.”   
  
Emma leapt up, growling when she slammed her shin into the coffee table. “What?” she shouted. “Are you serious? I didn’t know people actually beat up other people in crime empires.”   
  
“You don’t have much experience with crime empires,” Mary Margaret pointed out, and Emma tried to count to three on every inhale. “And, well, I guess when you let the police break into your drug shipment or whatever the technical term is, you get sent to New Orleans and beat up.”   
  
“You’ve rationalized the whole thing.”   
  
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. Or she probably did. Emma couldn’t see her – but she had a pretty strong inkling if the groan-type noise on the other end of the phone was any indication. “I haven’t,” Mary Margaret argued. “Well, not entirely, but I’ve got a theory and both Belle and Ariel totally agree with me.”   
  
“You’re talking to Ariel and Belle about this?”   
  
‘Well, you were, admittedly kind of busy.”   
  
“The soul of tact and several bulls in one very small china shop.”   
  
“I’m not going to take offense to that because I know I’m just dumping information on your metaphorical doorstep.”

Emma huffed, twisting her ring on its chain and she couldn't really do that at the same time she was pacing, which her left her just awkwardly standing in the middle of the living room in a shirt that wasn’t hers and what felt like a large bruise growing on her shin.

“What did they charge him with?” Emma asked. “David said racketeering before. This sounds more like assault.”  
  
“I think it’s still racketeering. Google tells me it’s a very broad type of evil.”   
  
Emma laugh seemed to just fall out of her, smiling despite the situation and the state of David’s stitches and what the hell was taking so long downtown, and she wasn’t sure what she would do without Mary Margaret.

“You are something else, you know that?” Emma asked, dropping onto the arm of the couch. She didn’t let go of her ring.

“Was that a compliment? After the bull comment?”  
  
“Yeah, well, this has been a strange conversation. I’m not the only bouncing around from topic to topic.”   
  
Mary Margaret must have smiled because Emma swore she could almost hear it or feel it or something that didn’t actually make much sense and wasn’t quite possible, but might have been both for two people trying to take care of each other.

“It really is a pretty generic term,” she continued. “Racketeering, I mean. I think that’s why they were going after that charge. Easier to land or something.”  
  
“And that’s what happened? It landed.”   
  
“Perfectly on target. They’ve been in questioning all day.”

“Hey, did I…” Emma started, and the words got stuck in her throat. Mary Margaret hummed softly in confusion, the smile probably disappearing when it transformed into something just a bit closer to concern. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, falling back onto the couch cushions. “For...all of this.” Mary Margaret didn’t say anything for what felt like several hours and Emma chewed on her lip, the guilt threatening to push her directly into the couch. That probably would hurt. There were springs or something.

“I don’t understand,” Mary Margaret said eventually. “Is this because you didn’t say where you were going last night? Because I definitely knew where you were going. And, you know, you’re not actually my kid, you don’t have to report back to me or anything.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant. I mean this whole video game thing and David’s stitches and we should have left as soon as we saw Neal was on another roster. I just never even imagined any of this.”   
  
“Of course you didn’t. Who could? This is insane.”   
  
“I know, I know, but, you know…”   
  
“You’re Emma and very good at assuming the worst and assuming that everyone else is also assuming those things,” Mary Margaret finished, and she couldn’t even argue. They spent far too much time together.

“Are we not all collectively fearing the worst? I mean, what happens now? They get Hans the sleazy lawyer to talk or sign a confession and then what?”  
  
“The law,” Mary Margaret said like that was an answer and explanation all rolled up into one.

It wasn’t.

It was just two words that Emma wasn’t entirely sure meant much of anything anymore because none of this made sense, but it all connected and there had to be a reason Regina needed Killian to come downtown.  

“David doesn’t blame you,” Mary Margaret added, somehow getting to the middle of everything sooner than Emma expected her to. Figured. “He would honestly take twenty different bullets if it meant he was protecting you.”  
  
“And you don’t think that’s a problem?”   
  
“Do you?”   
  
“That’s not what I asked,” Emma sighed. “And even if David doesn’t blame me, there are plenty of other people who could. This isn’t really what any of us signed up for. We don’t even know what will happen if we do manage to win the final. They’ll probably pull our prize or something.”   
  
“I really don’t think any of them are doing this for the money.”   
  
“Then why are they still here?”   
  
Mary Margaret made some kind of disappointed noise on the other end of the phone and Emma tried to sink into the couch again, springs be damned. “Because you’re you,” Mary Margaret whispered. “And they don’t care about the money or the stories or the hit totals. They want to help you.”   
  
Emma took a deep breath, or tried, and half lying on the couch with her legs still twisted over the arm probably wasn’t helping much, but she couldn't actually bring herself to move. “You said stories,” she mumbled.

“Yes.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And that’s exactly what I meant.”   
  
“You don’t think something’s going to happen?” Emma asked, hating the way her voice sounded so small in that ridiculously enormous apartment and she really should ask Killian how many square feet it was because it might have been double the size of David and Mary Margaret’s.   
  
“What could happen?”   
  
Emma growled, snapping up and the couch pushed into, at least, six different parts of her leg and she was fairly certain her shin was starting to swell, like that was a thin bones could do. Actually, she had no idea. “Mary Margaret, David got shot!” she yelled. “That’s a thing that happened. Because of this and me and this whole thing is absurd! It’s...video games! It was just supposed to be video games. I wasn’t supposed to…”   
  
“You weren’t supposed to what?” Mary Margaret asked softly, and Emma couldn't catch her breath.

She didn’t get a chance to answer – and she wasn’t even sure what she would answer, certain  _believe_ sounded absurd out loud, but that might have been the best explanation, or maybe it was just _want_ and she wanted far more than she deserved.

The knock on the door came again when Emma didn’t answer immediately.

“Is someone knocking on your door?” Mary Margaret asked, and Emma didn’t bother to correct her. “Doesn’t Killian have that security guy who’s in love with you?”  
  
Emma groaned. “Ok, he’s not in love with me. He just asked for that picture the one time.”   
  
“And constantly tweets about Wail.”   
  
“How could you possibly know that?”   
  
“He put his Twitter handle in his Instagram bio. Anna and Ruby both follow him and he’s almost constantly talking about Wail and the League and he thinks you guys are totally going to wreck in the final.”   
  
“Stop using that word.”   
  
“That was his word! See! It’s an appropriate gaming term!”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, another knock on the door and she jogged towards the sound. “Listen, if this is like some kind of hit on me, then I need you to tell Ruby that Henry’s my second on Wail and give him all the money if we actually win this stupid thing.”   
  
Mary Margaret made some kind of dismissive sound and Emma swung the door open before whoever was standing on the other side could knock again. And then she nearly fell over.

“Henry,” Emma gasped, ignoring Mary Margaret’s mumbled _yeah, I understand the plan_ on the other end of the phone. Henry tried to smile and came up decidedly short, the look turning into something close to a grimace when he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

He was still wearing a backpack.

“What...what are you doing here?” Emma stammered, reaching a hand out instinctively to wrap around a backpack strap and tug him into the apartment. “Why aren’t you at school?”  
  
“School ended, like, forty-five minutes ago,” he said, and he couldn't’ seem to look her in the eye.

Mary Margaret was talking again. “Is Henry there?” she asked. Emma nodded, taking far longer than it should have to remember that Mary Margaret couldn't actually see her and Mary Margaret was still at school where Henry, likely, was supposed to be.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma mumbled. “Listen, M’s, I’ve got to go…”  
  
“Right, of course. He’s supposed to leave with Aurora once the after-school stuff ends. Usually around five. At least that’s what happened last year.”   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
The line clicked and Emma tried to stuff her phone into the back pocket of the jeans she absolutely wasn’t wearing, her phone crashing to the ground like it was a boulder. Henry winced.

She should put on some jeans.

Instead of leggings.

God, she was wearing Killian’s shirt.

“Does Mrs. Nolan know?” Henry asked softly, eyes still boring a hole into the ground.

“Know what?”

“What happened.”  
  
Emma resisted the urge to groan – or maybe just collapse into an anxious heap on the ground. “You’re going to have to be more specific there, kid,” she said. “What are you doing here? How did you even get up here?”

“The R to the 1-train.”  
  
“You answered the less important question.”   
  
“Yeah, I know,” Henry mumbled, twisting his foot as he dug his toe into the floor. “I kind of thought Hook would come back here.”   
  
“I mean, eventually, yeah.”   
  
She was awful at this. And she wasn’t even sure what _this_ was, not really because she had no idea what Mary Margaret did or didn’t know or why Henry would try and break out of after-school programs and her phone was still on the ground behind her.

She hoped her screen wasn’t cracked.

“But not yet?” Henry pressed, and there was no way he was actually eleven. He sounded like a mix of Killian and Robin and a knowing look that Regina should probably have patented.

“No,” Emma answered. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with just me. Now, come on, out with it. Mary Margaret said you blew off some after-school thing. Why?”  
  
Henry rolled his eyes and _that_ was all Will Scarlet. Jeez. “It’s not really a thing,” he said. “It’s fancy babysitting until Aurora can come and get me and Rol. No one even noticed I left. I just figured…”   
  
“That’s still not an answer. C’mon, at least get out of the doorway.” She tugged on the front of his shirt, nodding back towards the couch and grabbed her phone off the ground. “Sit,” she commanded, pleasantly surprised that there was barely any protest in response.

“Did Hook go to _The Caller_ after I talked to you?”   
  
Emma nodded. “Right after. And you’re on some kind of rule-breaking streak today. Staging after-school jailbreaks and texting in class?”   
  
“It wasn’t in class. Technically.”   
  
“Technically?”   
  
“I went to the bathroom. So no one could actually see me.” Henry made a face, sitting cross-legged on the corner of the couch and his backpack sounded like an anvil when he dropped it onto the floor. “I didn’t think it would take him that long. Mom was really worried though.”   
  
She didn’t have much experience with kids –  _none_ , she had no experience with kids – but Emma at least knew she couldn’t just start yelling questions and, not for the first time that afternoon, she wished there was a console somewhere in that apartment so she could shoot something. Or maybe just play video games with Henry.

That would be easier than the conversation they were having.

“Henry,” she said softly, and he snapped his head towards her so quickly she was momentarily worried about the state of his spine. “What was your mom worried about?”  
  
He took a deep breath before he answered, wringing his hands together and he didn’t flinch when Emma leaned forward and pried his finger apart.

“Cora wanted to talk to Hook,” he whispered.   
  
Her heart stopped or, possibly, plummeted into her stomach and Emma stood up when she realized – it was because of Hans.

It had to be.

She was done with coincidences and maybes and it was all connected and it all made sense and no wonder Regina had called eight-thousand times.

“Emma,” Henry said cautiously, far too perceptive for his own good. She’d started pacing again.

Damn.

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, and Henry’s eyes widened at the blatant lie. “Does Cora...is she always in New York? Or does she live somewhere else?”  
  
“No, no, she lives in Westchester. She’s been trying to get Mom and Robin to move up there forever, but they don’t want to leave the city. She only comes here when things are important.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes – trying to take stock of all the facts while continuing to get enough oxygen to all her vital organs. “And this was important then?” she asked. “This meeting?”   
  
“I guess.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
Henry huffed out a particularly frustrated puff of air, a mess of limbs and, Emma assumed, eavesdropping and she needed to get this kid back to his actual home. “Alright,” she said slowly, doing her best _teacher voice_ impersonation. Henry almost smiled. “So you want to tell me what you weren’t actually supposed to hear this morning and why it’s got you so worried?”   
  
It took forever for him to answer.

And Emma was impatient and anxious and maybe another quasi-kid who just wanted _one_ thing to work out.

“Cora only shows up when things are bad,” Henry whispered. “Or when she thinks things are bad. And she wanted to talk to Hook. She tried to come to our apartment and Mom got really mad and that’s why they met at the office. I think…”  
  
“You think what?” Emma asked when he didn’t actually finish his sentence.

“I think she’s trying to get Hook to leave New York.”

Shit.

Shit, fuck, damn, god fucking.. _.asshole_.

That last one didn’t even make any sense. She’d have to ask Scarlet for some more appropriate curse words.

“Killian wouldn’t do that,” Emma said, the words falling out of her like she was certain if she said them, she’d believe them and she did. Really. Honestly. With every single fiber of her being or something less ridiculous.

She just didn’t know what happened if Killian Jones didn’t have a byline.

And that guilt was somewhere close to drowning her now.

“I know,” Henry mumbled, voice still quiet and, maybe, just a bit hopeful and he kept blinking quickly. “But Cora...she doesn’t like Hook. Or anything, really, but especially Hook and he just came back and…”  
  
Emma moved quickly and on instinct and she was fairly certain she was overstepping some kind of boundary, but she’d been the subject of a paper that had gotten an A a few months before and she couldn't think of anything to do expect hug the stammering kid desperately trying not to actually cry in the corner of the couch.

Henry’s breath hitched, surprise coloring the sound and Emma held on tighter. And he hugged her back.

And it was like a sudden surplus of oxygen flew into the room and she forgot any kind of worry or certainty that she _wasn’t enough_ as soon as Henry’s arms squeezed around her waist.

Henry sniffled, burying his face into her shoulder and Emma couldn’t help but smile at the sound – something in the back of her mind shifting at the idea that this kid, so certain and positive and _hopeful_ , some kind of Mary Margaret-type belief system born out of years of family and support, could focus all of that energy on this.

It didn’t make any sense.   
  
It was insane and vaguely terrifying and _David had been shot_ , but she was sitting in the middle of an apartment she kept accidentally referring to as hers and Emma found herself believing just a bit as well.

And maybe _happily ever after_ wasn’t such a strange concept.   
  
“Hey, deep breaths, ok,” Emma mumbled, resting her chin on the top of Henry’s head and he might have laughed against her. “In through your nose and out through your mouth.’   
  
Henry nodded, the shirt under his nose twisting slightly and his eyes were just a bit redder than normal when he pulled back, swiping his knuckles underneath his eyes. “Nothing is going to happen,” Emma promised, well aware that she _couldn’t_ actually promise that, but she believed and this must be what Mary Margaret felt like all the time.

It was kind of nice.

“He likes you a lot, you know,” Henry muttered, barely pausing between words as he ducked his eyes back towards his knees. “Hook, I mean. He wouldn’t….I think he wants to stay for you.”  
  
Emma lifted her eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re eleven?”   
  
“Almost twelve. My birthday’s in April. Right near the final, actually. Like a week after.”   
  
“Of course it is.”   
  
She took another deep breath, tugging lightly on her ring and shaking her hair off her shoulders and _nothing was going to happen_ . She hoped nothing happened. “Your mom didn’t say what the meeting was about?” Emma asked. “When you weren’t supposed to be listening.”   
  
“You keep talking about that.”   
  
“Because it seems to be a bit of a trend for you.”

“I was worried!”

“I know you were kid,” Emma said, pulling his hand off his knee when he started yanking at the dress pants that were probably part of a uniform. “But this isn’t your job. Your job is to play video games so you can be better than all of us and win your own millions.”

Henry huffed – a disgruntled, soon-to-be-twelve noise. “No,” he said, Emma’s eyes widening at the contradiction. “I mean I don’t know what the meeting was about. Just that Mom looked really worried and Robin’s phone rang really late last night and he was talking to Ariel for a long time and I think those things went together and…”  
  
“Hey,” Emma interrupted. “You can’t do that, ok? No trying to piece together facts or listen to conversations when you’re supposed to be asleep or sneaking out of school on two different Subway lines. That’s not your job.”   
  
“Because there are real police involved?”   
  
She hadn’t had enough coffee for any of the conversations she’d had that day. “God, do you just know everything that’s going on?”

“I mean, kind of,” Henry shrugged. “And Ariel’s really, really bad about secrets. She told Robin to make her a key to Hook’s office so she could put stuff in there the other day and when he asked her why she said it was police stuff.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“He really likes you,” Henry repeated, and Emma closed her eyes lightly, trying to keep gravity from altering or her stomach where it was supposed to be and not in her throat. “He’d want to stay because of you.”   
  
“I know,” Emma breathed. She hadn’t actually opened her eyes yet. She licked her lips, nodding once and hoping Henry didn’t notice her own, personal pep-talk, but he was, easily, the most observant eleven-year-old in the entire history of the world, so, of course he did.

And he smiled at her when she opened her eyes.   
  
“We need to get you back downtown,” she said, standing up and trying to lift Henry’s backpack. It didn’t move an inch. “God, what is in that, weights?”   
  
“Four textbooks, three binders and, like twenty pens, but I don’t think they really weigh much.”   
  
“No, probably not. How is your back not just permanently warped?

Henry shrugged, standing up and grabbing the backpack with practiced ease. “It’s kind of normal,” he said. “Didn’t you have a ton of homework?”

Emma didn’t say anything – fairly certain the world was pulling some kind of monstrous joke at this point. “C’mon,” she muttered. “Let’s test your cab hailing abilities.”

It took an actual hour to get downtown – the cab fare clicking up slowly and painfully and Emma tried to ignore it while Henry kept talking about Overwatch and the League and asking about maps and strategy and she could almost deal with that.

It was, at least, better than dealing with the possibility that Cora fired Killian or pulled all their stories and the stories didn’t really matter anymore anyway because there was only one round left and they had more important things going on than self promotion.

“We’re here,” Henry announced when the cab skidded to a stop in front of an absolutely _enormous_ building with a doorman in a goddamn _uniform_ standing in front of glass sheets and ostentatious gold handles.

“Yeah?” Emma asked, a wholly absurd question with Henry already halfway on the sidewalk already. He was talking to the doorman, babbling a mile a minute about homework and _yeah, that’s Hook girlfriend, Emma, she plays video games_ and asking _are Mom and Robin home yet_?

She exhaled loudly, swiping a card she hoped didn’t automatically get declined and she’d have to take the Subway...somewhere.

Killian hadn’t actually called. Or came back home while she put on actual pants to bring Henry downtown.

Ah, shit, she’d done it again.

“Swan?”

Emma snapped her head up, coming dangerously close to smashing it into the still-open cab door, and Killian was staring at her, one arm slung over Henry’s shoulder and an incredulous expression on his face, like she’d just appeared there out of thin air.

“Hey,” she muttered, finally, climbing out of the cab and slamming the door closed behind her. “Where...are you ok?”

He didn’t answer – didn’t get a chance to answer, heels clicking behind him and it took less than a full second for Regina to tug Henry away from Killian. She looked less put together than Emma could ever remember seeing, mascara smudged and lipstick gone entirely and it looked like one of her nails had actually broken.

She hugged him. Tightly and desperately and Emma stood there, frozen on the sidewalk with a sizable dent in her checking account.

“Henry, where have you been?” Robin shouted, jogging towards the scene and he looked just as concerned as Regina. His eyes widened when he saw Emma and maybe it was just the journalist in him, but he seemed to piece it together much quicker than Regina – or maybe she was simply too busy hugging her son as tightly as she possibly could.

“We got back down here as soon as we could,” Emma explained, not sure anyone could hear her over the sound of traffic and horns and tourists. “It took forever to get down the FDR.”  
  
“Shit driver,” Killian muttered. “Should have gone down the West Side.”   
  
“I just kind of let him pick.”

He nodded, taking a step towards her. “You ok?”

“I asked first.”  
  
“That’s true. Did he just come up there?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma said, fingers finding the front of his t-shirt out of habit. “He was worried about your meeting with Cora.”   
  
“Ah, shit.”   
  
“That’s the sentiment I’ve been rolling with for most of the day, actually.”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows, head tilted slightly and it was still far too cold to be standing in the middle of the sidewalk, cross streets turning into wind tunnels and her hair actually hit him on the side of the face. “Mary Margaret called me,” Emma said, like that explained something.

“And?”  
  
“And I’m fairly positive Robin knows already.”   
  
He twisted, glancing at Robin over his shoulder and keeping one hand locked on Emma’s waist. Robin winced. “I told A she didn’t have to worry about telling anyone because David would probably tell Mary Margaret who would tell you,” he said.

“That’s some kind of lifetime trend,” Emma replied blandly, and Robin chuckled.

Killian tightened his hand. “They arrested him didn’t they?” he asked, looking at Emma. “Hans the sleazy lawyer? Hey, Gina, look I was right.”  
  
“Bully for you,” she mumbled, arms still wrapped around Henry and his fifty-pound backpack.

“She’s mad at me,” Killian said, and Emma wasn’t sure who he was talking to her or just announcing the fact to the entire sidewalk.

“Because you’re an idiot. An overly emotional...fill in the blank insult here. Scarlet’s going to be super pissed when you land on his couch again in a couple of weeks.”

Emma pulled back quickly, nearly stumbling over her own feet in the process and Killian glared at Regina. “Stop it Gina,” he growled, and Henry moved away from her arms, twisting and turning and nearly leaping back at Killian, a look that was treading close to _terror_ on his face.

“It’s true then?” he asked, glancing between Killian and Emma. She couldn’t move.

Killian shook his head, answering a question Henry hadn’t actually asked. “Your mother has a very overactive imagination. Everything’s fine, kid. And you can’t skip out on Aurora again, ok? Mom nearly fired her.”  
  
Regina rolled her eyes skyward, crossing her arms and they were going to have some kind of actual _glare off_ in the middle of Spring Street.

“Alright, alright, enough,” Robin sighed when neither Killian nor Regina seemed willing to give an inch.

Emma still hadn’t moved.

“I do already know,” he continued. “And I would have told Hook if he was the kind of person who actually answered his phone and didn’t ignore it for hours on end, but that’s not the world we live in, so here we are. Hans the sleazy lawyer getting arrested and, hopefully, sentenced to every single letter of the law is good news. The rest of it, however, is….not quite as good.”  
  
Emma moved – breathing quickly and snapping her head away from the tiny weed she’d been staring at in the sidewalk crack. “Fired?” she asked, not sure when she’d lost the ability to form complete sentences.

Probably when she decided to start believing in things.

“No,” Killian answered softly and that wasn’t the word she was expecting. She was expecting a few more words than two letters and fired was the only thing that made sense.

“What?”  
  
“Cora didn’t fire me. She didn’t really have a chance. There was a threat, but, you know, I had a contract and she probably can’t afford a lawsuit or anything. You think she could afford a lawsuit, Gina?”   
  
“Shut up,” Regina hissed.

Killian chuckled under his breath, both hands working their way back towards Emma’s hips when he turned to stare at her – that same look on her face that, at some point, she’d started considering _hers_ in the same way she kept considering that apartment as _home_ and _theirs_ and that tiny, little pinprick of hope in the very center of her flared to life again.

“What if we got some coffee, Swan?” he asked, and she blinked in confusion. Again. He grinned at her, leaning forward slightly and for half a moment she thought he was actually going to kiss her – right there in front of Henry and his parents – but he just lingered in her space, half a breath away from her and Emma’s hand moved, thumb brushing across the stubble on his jaw.

He closed his eyes.

“Yeah, ok,” she said softly. “But you can pay because that cab was kind of ridiculous.”  
  
“Expense it to Mills.”   
  
“I can’t do that.”   
  
“Yes you can. She can do that, can’t she, Gina?” Killian asked, eyes flitting back towards the doors and a Regina who looked like she’d lost a little bit of her fight in the last few moments.

She nodded. “Yeah, of course. Give me the receipt. Or give it to Ariel. And thank you. For bringing Henry back home.”  
  
“Of course,” Emma said, tugging the receipt out of her back pocket. “You know, I don’t usually have stuff in the afternoons. We practice earlier or super late and I’m, well, you know, I’m around. If you need someone to...whatever.”   
_  
Nailed it. _

Regina looked stunned, but Robin beamed at her and Killian looked like...several words and phrases and _beliefs_ Emma still couldn’t quite bring herself to put a name to. “Thank you,” Regina said again. “I’m sure Henry and Roland would enjoy that.”   
  
“Ok. Um...Killian can probably just give you my number. Or, Henry. Whatever.”   
  
“Of course.”

“Come on, love,” Killian said softly, lacing his fingers through Emma’s before she realized he’d even moved his hand. “There’s coffee a couple blocks away from here.”

They walked in silence – relative, at least, tourists still moving around them and the city moving around them and Emma tried to come up with something to say. She couldn’t. She had too many questions.

She should have made that goddamn list.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Killian said, snapping her out of thoughts.

“Do what?”  
  
“Offer to play after-school chaperone. Gina has an assistant and…”

“That Henry ran away from,” Emma muttered and Killian shrugged. “And that’s not even remotely why I did that.”  
  
“Why then?”   
  
“Henry took two different Subway lines to get uptown because he was convinced Cora was going to push you out of the city. He heard Regina and Robin talking and was certain you were going to leave, like, yesterday. That kid...he thinks you hung every star in the sky and you think the same thing right back. About Henry and Roland and all of them. That’s why you’re so worried about the bylines and being enough and I get it. I do, but…”   
  
Killian quirked an eyebrow. “But what, Swan?”

“You don’t need to. Everything you’ve done since you’ve gotten here, it’s just above and beyond. The stories and the coverage and everything to try and help David and, just, you. So you don’t have to keep trying to prove anything. It worked.”

Emma couldn't read the look on his face – something close to wonder and disbelief and he kissed her before she was ready for it.

She nearly fell into a tourist.

He made sure she didn’t, arm wrapped around her waist and fingers in her hair and she hadn’t actually changed shirts, just thrown her jacket over the top of what she assumed was an absolutely ancient Hunter College alumni giveaway.

They’d gotten almost questionably good at this in the last few months and Emma briefly considered something about _practice_ and it making things _perfect_ and this was nowhere near perfect, but it was as close as she’d ever gotten.   
  
“God, I can’t think when you do that,” she mumbled against his mouth and she felt his lips quirk up.

“That’s absolutely the idea, Swan.”  
  
“Well, that’s working then too.”   
  
He smiled at her, leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers and Emma did her best to try and memorize it all – the moment and him and the steady weight of his hand on her back and how his breathing seemed to always even out as soon as she traced her fingers across the back of his neck. She tried to take stock of all of it, pushing everything into the back corners of her mind and that, somehow, still-scared, teenage runaway that David Nolan found with hay in her hair and the certainty that everyone was going to disappoint her.

“I love you,” Emma whispered, and Killian’s whole body sagged against her, arm tightening a fraction of an inch. He kissed the top of her hair and she tried to remember that too, adding it to the list she absolutely wasn’t making.

“I love you,” he said, and there was no _too_ , no _extra_ , just a statement of fact and his voice in her ear and that might have moved to the very top of that not-real list. “Enough to make my head spin sometimes.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened now or are you going to try and distract me again?”  
  
“I’m almost offended that you think the kissing was a distraction tactic.”   
  
“The coffee, counselor. I was talking about the coffee.”   
  
“Ah, of course,” Killian grinned, that glint in his eye doing something very specific to Emma’s ability to breathe. “Are you still wearing my shirt, love?”

“C’mon,” she said, tapping her finger against his chest. “You’re doing it again.”  
  
“I’m not. I’m distracted by you wearing my clothes in public places.”   
  
“It’s because an almost-twelve-year-old showed up on our doorstep terrified that his grandmother was going to murder you in the conference room at _The Daily Caller_ offices.”

She didn’t realize she’d done it _again_ until she noticed just how wide Killian’s eyes had gone, far too blue and far too distracting and the tourists around them were all grumbling about them standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Oh, well, shit,” Emma mumbled. “That’s not really what I meant. I mean it is kind of, but, damn, we’re really just kind of barreling through all of those relationship milestones, aren’t we? It’s totally because you let me leave my shower gel there.”  
  
“I wanted you to leave your shower gel there.”   
  
“Is that weird?”   
  
“That I wanted you to be able to bathe?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes and he grinned at her – wide and confident, but far more genuine than it had been when he first walked into Granny’s. “No, no,” she stuttered. “That we’ve just kind of jumped into all of this? It’s just...this is...I never do any of this.”   
  
“I don’t think either of us do, love,” Killian said, hand still tracing out nonsensical patterns across her back. “But this the only thing that has made sense. Without extensive research or unexpected drug raids.”   
  
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”   
  
“Honestly.”

She bit her lip, not sure she could match that type of romanticism when she could practically feel her head spinning or the start of a migraine and she kind of hoped he stole her more cinnamon when they did eventually go inside that Starbucks – just because he could.

“You’re stalling,” Emma accused. “What happened with Cora? Did it really have something to do with Hans the sleazy lawyer?”  
  
“You know I’m glad that nickname caught on. Aside from you leaving shower gel places, I think that might me my proudest accomplishment to date.”   
  
“I’m going to let the idea that the location of my shower gel is some kind of accomplishment for you because I know you’re still trying to deflect.”   
  
“Mind reader.”   
  
“Open books. Killian, come on, it can’t be that bad if she didn’t actually fire you, right?”   
  
He clicked his tongue, the smile fading just a bit and Emma tried to keep her legs straight. “She didn’t,” he said, barely audible over the din of lower Manhattan and another tourist ran into Emma. “I quit.”   
  
She yanked her head back, breathing quickly through her mouth and that didn’t match up with the exercises Mary Margaret had tried to get her to follow before. “What?” Emma asked. “I don’t...but why?”   
  
“It made sense.”   
  
“It made sense?” she echoed, yelling the words and Killian’s arm felt like it was cemented around her. She couldn't move even if she wanted to. “How?”   
  
“She’s working for Gold. Cora. He’s pulling all the strings and directing editorial decisions and he wanted a story that I wasn’t willing to write.”   
  
“What?” She was a fucking broken record. She couldn't come up with anything else to ask. “I can’t believe there’s a single story in the world you’d turn down.”   
  
Killian shrugged, a deprecating look on his face Emma couldn't quite rationalize. “There’s a first time for everything, Swan,” he grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes and her stomach was a dozen blocks away, free-falling or something absolutely impossible.

“I don’t understand. You were hitting. It was working. What would change?”  
  
“Everything. Absolutely everything changed.”   
  
“You’re not making any sense at all.”   
  
“Ah, that’s why Gina was so mad at me, but trust me, Emma, this is making perfect sense. I am, finally, making the right decision.”

It was the _Emma_ that did it – when she, eventually, looked back and glanced down the list she was _absolutely_ making, that would be the one thing that changed everything, the way he seemed to say it differently, reverently and that was why she didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t try to figure out what the story was about.

She kissed him instead, insistent and determined and he groaned when she let her tongue trace across his lip.

“I just...this is what you wanted though,” Emma muttered, and Killian’s eyes fluttered closed when her fingers moved back to his neck.

“Not anymore.”  
  
She blinked and it was an actual miracle that she got the next few words out. “What do you want then?”   
  
And his voice didn’t shake when he answered.

“Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you.”  
  
And those words were an entire list unto themselves. He stole her cinnamon, grinning slyly at her when he tugged it out of his pocket twenty-odd blocks uptown as they walked back home.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry's worried. Emma's worried. Everyone's worried. And, uh....you know, maybe they've got some reason to be. As always thank you guys for clicking and reading and commenting. It's the absolute best. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down, where I'm also taking [KISS PROMPTS](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/post/178932047980/fictional-kiss-prompts) because the world is awful and stressful and we should all be making out more.


	29. Chapter 29

“I kind of feel like we’re lurking here.”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma, not turning his head away from the archway across the street and they were kind of lurking there. “This was your idea, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, but then I just got radio silence out of Regina about it and you’ve been all super cool uncle for the last couple of weeks and when I show up at fancy private schools I’m usually there to help M’s and spend most of my time in her classroom..

“You showing up to a lot of fancy private schools then?”

She stuck out her tongue and that would have been decidedly distracting no matter where they were standing, but they were sitting on a stone wall across from Henry and Roland’s school and he couldn't really just start making out with her when they were supposed to be picking up kids and doing something vaguely guardian-like.   
  
“I don’t think Mary Margaret would appreciate it if I just showed up in her classroom,” Killian reasoned.   
  
Emma shrugged. “I don’t know about that. She’s a big fan of yours.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
He widened his eyes, twisting his eyebrows slightly and Emma made a face, letting her head loll onto his shoulder and he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. Like he was trying to prove what a big fan of hers he was.

Or something.

He hadn’t written anything in nearly three weeks and the only reason he hadn’t actually been kicked out of his apartment was a mixture of kismet and a vaguely ridiculous amount of savings and the United States Navy, who sent him a check once a month because his brother was dead.

That was kind of a depressing way of thinking about it.

And he’d been decidedly _not_ depressed for the last few weeks.

Even if he was counting the days since he’d quit and, sometimes, his mind would wander and he’d remember Cora’s threat –  _the consequences of that_ – and his breath would catch and Emma would look at him with enough concern that he’d forget why he was even worried in the first place.

Nothing was going to happen.

It was going to be fine.

Killian had told himself that, at least, six million times in the days since he’d walked out of _The Daily Caller_ offices and nothing had happened and Hans was still in jail and the DA was building a case and...it was going to be fine.

Justice would prevail.

Or something less lame.

And he couldn’t worry about an open investigation and lingering threats when he and Emma had to find something to do to entertain two kids for the next four hours.

“See, you’re trying to flirt and distract with that eyebrow thing you do,” Emma said, tapping her finger on his forehead to prove her point. “But Mary Margaret honestly thinks you’re fantastic, so you’re only teasing yourself in this weird, roundabout way.”  
  
He forgot every worry he’d ever had.

“And why exactly would Mary Margaret think I’m so fantastic, Swan?” Killian asked, ducking his head until he was half a breath away from her and she pulled her lips behind her teeth. That felt like a victory. “Are you talking about me, love?”  
  
“Fishing for compliments.”  
  
“For facts. There’s a difference.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and her hand moved back to the front of his jacket, tugging lightly on fabric. “See, you think this banter is endearing, but it’s just frustrating.”  
  
“You’re smiling though,” Killian argued, leaning back only long enough that he could tilt his head and, well, damn the sidewalk or the wall they were sitting on. He kissed her anyway.

It wasn’t exactly easy – balanced as they were on an actual _wall_ and he had a coffee cup in one hand and Emma couldn't quite twist enough, bent awkwardly around herself and him and they were probably drawing curious looks from the tourists.

“Not smiling,” Emma mumbled, and this felt like flirting, which made everything feel a bit more normal and nothing was going to happen.

There was no reason to...simply assume the worst. He stopped doing that as soon as she started leaving shower gel in his apartment –  _their apartment –_ but they hadn’t really gotten around to discussing that and maybe they should because he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t fallen asleep without Emma tucked up against him.

Until later on that night.

That was a weird train of thought, a twisted vision of the future and a bed that would, presumably, feel far too big without her hair everywhere and her feet tangled in between his legs, but there was a plan and a video game final the next day and _it was going to be fine_.

Nothing was going to happen.

He believed.

Or something decidedly un-Killian Jones. Or, maybe,  _very_ Killian Jones in the last nine months.

Huh.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Emma said, sitting up a bit straighter and there was definitely a smile when she took a sip of her own coffee. “And do you think we can actually be arrested for loitering on this wall?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Was that a no to both questions or just the loitering thing?”  
  
“Both questions,” he grinned. “But mostly the second one because this is a park and a public place and we could sit here for the rest of the day if we wanted to.”  
  
“It’d probably get cold.”  
  
“I think we’ve proved we’re more than capable of contending with the cold, Swan. And it’s April.”  
  
“I’m not sure that makes a difference,” Emma pointed out, toying with the zipper of his coat now and flirting was as good a distraction as any. 

It was going to be fine.

He couldn’t even really lie to himself anymore and he was so worried he was fairly certain his hand was just going to start shaking at some point.

That probably would have made the flirting more difficult.

“The loudest thinker in all five boroughs,” Emma muttered, and her empty coffee cup seemed to echo in between his ears when she set it down next to her.

“You can’t include Staten Island in that, Swan. That doesn’t even count.”  
  
“I think everyone on Staten Island would disagree with that. Have you ever even been to Staten Island?”   
  
“Not once in my life,” he admitted. “There never seemed to be a point. Why, have you ever been to Staten Island?”   
  
Emma nodded. “Once when I came to visit David and M’s and Ruby was dating someone who lived out there and there was a birthday party...or New Year’s? Maybe it was New Year’s? It was freezing on the boat though.”   
  
“The boat,” Killian repeated skeptically and Emma shrugged again. “You know, I think the entire not-quite borough of Staten Island would take offense to you calling the ferry a boat, love. And boat is just...generically offensive.”   
  
“To who? Exactly? Also, you just insulted Staten Island again.”   
  
“And you can’t remember if it was a birthday party or New Year’s,” he argued, falling back into flirting and banter and _what happened next_ because somewhere in between the worry and the internal pep-talks and trying to figure out if Scarlet could actually teach him how to take photos, Killian had started considering _next_ in some kind of grand, sweeping way.

And he wanted her to keep shower gel in his apartment on some kind of indefinite scale.

And maybe they could pay rent together.   
  
Or something more romantic than that.

“It was definitely New Year’s,” Emma promised, picking her coffee cup up again like she suddenly expected it to be filled and hot enough to burn her tongue. “Ah, shit,” she grumbled when she realized there were just dregs in the bottom and Killian couldn't quite help the laugh that bubbled out of him.

They’d buy, at least, fifty bottles of that vanilla scented shower gel and everything would probably smell a bit like it and he’d probably never stop smiling.

“I think it was snowing,” she added. “Why didn’t we get more coffee?”  
  
Killian shook his head – not sure if it was an answer or just that general sense of wonder he always seemed to find himself wading through when it came to Emma. “Because even you wouldn’t be able to drink your coffee quickly enough that the second cup would still be scalding hot by the time you got it.”  
  
“That was a very convoluted sentence.”  
  
“And yet I’m fairly certain you kept up with it.”  
  
“That’s because I am, occasionally, smart and quick on the uptake.”

“All the time.”  
  
She scoffed, tongue doing decidedly distracting things again – pressing into the corner of her mouth and slipping in between her lips and he didn’t expect the next question to just _fall out_ out of him, but he hadn’t written anything in awhile and he was curious.

He wanted to know every single about her.

“Have you thought about that anymore?” Killian asked, and Emma hummed in confusion, tugging one leg up to rest her chin on her knee.

“About what?”  
  
“School. And going back to school.”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up her forehead and Killian resisted the urge to groan, well aware that he’d just yanked them out of flirting and into serious so quickly they’d probably both sustained cuts and bruises in several different places.

“Oh,” she mumbled, still holding an empty coffee cup. They should have kept talking about Staten Island. Or New Year’s.

He should have asked her to move into his goddamn apartment.

“You don’t have to actually answer that,” Killian said quickly, staring at the crowd of recently-dismissed kids and they should probably get off the wall so Henry and Roland knew they were there.

“Yes,” Emma said.

She looked straight at him when she said it, pulling her other leg up and twisting on the spot and that couldn’t have been comfortable because they were sitting on granite or concrete or _something_ , but it might have actually been the most adorable thing he’d ever seen and she clicked her tongue when she smiled at him again.

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning forward out of instinct to brush his fingers over the side of her face. She closed her eyes.

“I mean, kind of. Not in anything more than just the abstract and I definitely haven’t talked to M’s about it or even looked up when they offer GED tests. Is that even how it works? I honestly have no idea.”  
  
“I think there are classes. We could look.”   
  
Emma snapped her head up and, eventually, she wouldn’t be so surprised by that. She wouldn’t be surprised by him or this or them in some kind of grand, sweepingly romantic way.

He was looking forward to that.

Maybe buying more shower gel would help. Or coffee.

“You’d do that?” she asked softly and Killian nodded before she’d even finished the question.

“Anything, Swan.”  
  
“Jeez, you can’t just do that.”   
  
“Do what, exactly?”   
  
“It feels like cheating,” Emma accused, mumbling the words distractedly and the kids were getting louder and sprinting in several different directions towards several different blocks and they were totally going to get ice cream.

That would probably ruin everyone’s appetite for whatever pre-final _thing_ they had to go to at Granny’s later that night, but Killian was far too busy trying to convince his girlfriend he’d go to the end of the goddamn world for her to be concerned with caloric intake.

“I’m afraid I’m not keeping up with this conversation, Swan,” he smiled, and he’d totally done it for the reaction, the twist of her mouth and the way her eyes rolled skyward and her hair smelled like vanilla when he tucked his head to kiss along her jaw.

“Well, when you’re so busy insulting an entire borough, it’s difficult to remember the high points, I suppose.”  
  
“Staten Island should not be a borough. We’ve been over this, love.”   
  
“I’m going to ask Ruby her thoughts later.”   
  
“You can poll the entire restaurant if you want. I’m still going to win. And if Ruby was dating someone on Staten Island and it was serious enough to warrant either a birthday party or New Year’s Eve invitation and she is no longer dating that person, then I’m going to go ahead and assume that she doesn’t have very fond memories of Staten Island.”

Emma huffed – the sound bordering on a growl and that was vaguely adorable too. “See, you’re doing it again,” she accused, and she was going to do permanent damage to his zipper. “Frustratingly attractive. It’s cheating.”  
  
“I don’t think those words are supposed to go together in that order.”   
  
“Well, too bad, you brought this on yourself when you just started offering up research services like that was a normal thing people do.”   
  
“Isn’t it?” Killian asked. It felt like a much bigger question. It felt like _the_ question and he really didn’t want her to have some kind of team-bonding thing that night that required her to sleep anywhere except next to him.

He was a selfish asshole.

Who loved her enough for anything.

_What happens next_.

“Yeah, I think it might be,” Emma admitted softly, head falling against his shoulder and he kissed her hair quickly and immediately and instinctively and if he only ever smelled vanilla for the rest of his life then things would be as fine as he kept promising himself they would be.

“You think Henry would let me write research papers about him when he becomes a professional video game player?” she continued, and Killian laughed, wrapping both arms around her waist and that wasn’t very comfortable either. He didn’t care. “You could double check my homework or something. Make sure I do it every night.”  
  
It would probably be weird if he just started shouting future-type plans and questions into her hair, but it was fairly difficult not to and Killian settled on kissing her forehead again.

“I’d love that,” he said honestly.

She didn’t look quite as surprised when she pulled back, just smiled softly at him and he breathed a bit easier when her fingers ghosted over the back of his beck and the bottom of his hair.

“I just figured…” Emma muttered. “If this all ends in flames or something less dramatic tomorrow, then I should have some kind of backup plan and I just figured…”  
  
“What?” Killian asked when she didn’t actually finish her thought. “Figured what?”   
  
“I know you’re going stir crazy without writing and I know that you…” She took another deep breath, chewing thoughtfully on her lip when her eyes went slightly glossy. “You walked away and this is all my fault, but you’re going to get something else and you’re going to win eight-hundred awards and I’d just like to...compare or something.”   
  
They were never going to get off that wall.

He was never going to breathe again.

“Swan,” Killian started, breathing out her name like it was the most important thing he’d ever said. It absolutely was.

“None of this is your fault,” he continued, squeezing her shoulder like that would prove his point. “This a convergence of coincidences and absurd connections and, I mean, think about it, Elsa and Anna’s parents know Wesselton and worked with Wesselton for most of their professional lives and that whole time he’s been shipping for Gold too? And some guy you knew when you were seventeen winds up working for a crime boss I can’t actually pin any crimes on? I wasn’t lying before, Emma. You are the only thing about any of this that has made any sense and I’d do it all over again. Without a second thought.”

She blinked, her lip still stuck in between her teeth and her fingers stilled somewhere in the middle of that speech.

He tried to remember to breathe.

“Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” Emma mumbled, and that was, honestly, the last thing he expected to hear.

Killian barked out a laugh, head falling forward and nearly crashing against Emma’s and she stopped biting her lip long enough to find his. He wasn’t sure what noise he made when she kissed him, but it was probably classifiable as public indecency and maybe they should have been more worried about that than the loitering.

“Hey, can I ask a question?” she muttered, fingers still entrenched in his hair and he must have nodded because he could feel her lips turn up into a smile. “What was the angle? I...you never actually said.”  
  
It was like being thrown into ice water or off the side of the Staten Island Ferry on New Year’s Eve and neither one of those were very appealing options, but Killian felt his blood go cold and his face fell as soon as his brain processed her question.

“Was that not the right follow-up?” Emma asked, smile fading just a bit and he couldn’t actually think of a single word before he heard someone screaming his name from the other side of the block.

“Hook! Hook! Hook!” Henry shouted, tugging Roland along with him like he was a stray puppy he’d picked up instead of a younger brother who needed to keep his arm in his socket.

Killian shook his head, jumping off the wall and holding his hand out towards Emma. She took it. “They’re going to get run over by a cab and then Gina will murder me, bring me back to life and then kill me for the rest of time.”  
  
“That’s an oddly specific plan,” Emma muttered. They jogged across the street, not much traffic on a street that wasn’t actually a number and Henry beamed at them when they stopped in front of them.

Roland launched himself at Killian.

“And I’m not sure that Regina is the member of this family you need to worry about when it comes to injuring you,” she added, the smile back on her face and her hand on Roland’s back when he wrapped his arms around Killian’s neck.

“Eventually he’s got to learn how to control his limbs,” Killian mumbled.

Henry was still bobbing on the balls of his feet – nearly toppling to the side under the weight of his backpack – and Emma rested her other hand on the kid’s shoulders, tugging him against her side and he didn’t even argue.

That seemed important too.

“Rol, you can’t actually choke K before we move away from school, ok,” Emma laughed. Killian wasn’t sure whose eyes went wider at the use of multiple nicknames in one sentence – his or Roland’s and Henry just looked particularly pleased with himself.

Roland made some kind of strangled sound, far more understanding than a seven-year-old should be and they were barely treading water in some kind of riptide of future-type wants and plans.

That didn’t even make any sense.

Liam would be disappointed in Killian’s inability to make appropriate water-based puns.

“Can we get ice cream?” Roland asked, directing the question at Emma. She glanced towards Killian and he couldn’t shrug with a child draped across him, but they’d gotten fairly good at just _understanding_ each other.

“Rocky road?” Emma countered, and Roland didn’t approve of that at all.

“Cookie dough,” he shouted, twisting and kicking Killian in the thigh and Emma’s laugh would probably linger in his memory for, like, the rest of his life or something.

“Ah, of course. Silly of me to think otherwise. Well, I’ll tell you what, Rol. What if we got some kind of sampler platter of ice cream?”  
  
Roland made another noise – a question without actually asking the words – and Henry was never going to stop moving. Killian would probably just stand there for the rest of time. They did, eventually, have to go back uptown.

Regina would kill them if they just kind of kidnapped her kids with ice cream and domesticity.

“You mean, we could get, like, more than one flavor,” Henry said excitedly, voice rushing over the words and Emma nodded. “Hook never lets us do that!”  
  
Killian groaned, rolling his head back and drawing several curious looks from several different nannies and au pairs and those were probably the same thing. “Kid,” he sighed. “I have provided you with far more ice cream over the course of your life than you should have ever gotten. Do not try and suggest that I’m limiting your ice cream choices.”

Henry sneered slightly and Emma kept laughing like they hadn’t been, maybe, talking about _the angle_ a few seconds before. “You tell us we can’t mix ice cream choices because it ruins the flavor of the ice cream,” Henry argued.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” Emma said, bracing herself when Roland turned towards her and tried to shimmy down Killian’s side. “Hands down. Do you even allow sprinkles on these ice cream adventures?”  
  
“Yes,” Killian scowled. “Sprinkle are, in fact, encouraged. But, let’s all be honest with ourselves and agree that rainbow sprinkles are far and away better than chocolate sprinkles.”   
  
Emma and Henry made matching sounds of indignation and Roland was mumbling about _chocolate dip_ and _waffle cones_. “That’s not even remotely true,” Emma muttered, one arm on either side of the kids next to her and Killian wasn’t sure when he started coming in second in that particular popularity contest.

He really didn’t mind.

“It’s too much chocolate,” Killian argued. “You can’t get rocky road ice cream and chocolate sprinkles, Swan. That just sound awful. And how would you even get it in a cone? The logistics of sprinkles sticking to hard ice cream are just scientifically impossible.”  
  
“So, you’re a scientist now, huh?”

“Ah, well, if we’re all going to try something new, maybe I’ll head that direction.”

It was supposed to be a joke – and it almost felt like it actually landed, but Emma’s shoulders sagged half an inch and Henry’s gaze flickered between the two of them like he had some kind of sixth sense for tension.

“You get the ice cream in a cup, you put chocolate sprinkles and hot fudge on top with, at least, four cherries and then you ask for the cone on the side so there are crunchy pieces when you smash them on top,” Emma said, forcing the conversation back on its dessert-themed track.

Killian hummed, taking a step towards her and he ignored both kids when he kissed her quickly, lips brushing across hers and fingers grazing over her cheek and it was all going to be fine. “That’s a very detailed plan,” he murmured.

“Yeah, well, that seems to be the trend. And if we’re going to taste test a small fleet of ice cream flavors, then we need to have a good approach.”  
  
“Naturally. Alright, ice cream and irresponsibility and we’re all going to tell Gina that this was a collective plan, right?”   
  
“Eh,” Emma muttered as Roland laced his fingers with hers and Henry laughed loudly. “I make no promises. You were insulting the sprinkles.”   
  
“Jimmies.”   
  
“Oh, that’s just blasphemy.”   
  
He grinned at her – worry forgotten in another plan and more flirting and Roland didn’t let go of her hand while they walked up Third Avenue.

None of them ate any food when they got to Granny’s.

And Regina absolutely knew.

That might have been because Roland was quick to detail their _ice cream adventure_ to anyone who would listen and he told Regina, at least, six different times in the first twenty minutes they were there.

“I told you,” Killian muttered, slinging an arm over Emma’s shoulders and leaning against the wall in the room upstairs. “Look at her, she’s plotting my murder right now.”

Emma scoffed. “She’s smiling.”  
  
“Ah, but it’s a devious smile. I know it. She’s pissed about the amount of dairy we gave Roland.”   
  
“We? You were the one who was so quick to give into the ice cream plan, counselor. I refuse to accept any responsibility for any of that. Plus, you had more fun than both Roland and Henry put together.”

That might have been true.

And they’d gotten more coffee and walked all the way back uptown and he’d stolen cinnamon from a coffee place that actually wasn’t Starbucks.

It was in his jacket pocket.

Emma hummed, a knowing look on her face when she twisted back in front of him and he couldn’t think when she rested both her hands flat on his chest.

“Agh, is this more flirting?” Will yelled, walking towards them with a camera hanging against his side. “Because I don’t know if can cope with the flirting all night.”  
  
“It absolutely is,” Killian promised. “Go away.”   
  
“That’s rude, Hook. Hey, how come you guys never ask me to go get ice cream with your little after school family?”   
  
“Because you are a grown adult and, presumably, have a job to do at some point during the day.”   
  
“Yeah, but, you know, ice cream.”   
  
“It was really good ice cream,” Emma muttered, and Killian couldn't actually roll his eyes, far too busy being charmed and absolutely flirting back. “Tell you what, Scarlet, next time you’re not trying to be a jerk about us being better adults than you, then you can come get ice cream with us too, deal?”   
  
Will laughed loudly, head thrown back with the force of it and he nodded quickly. “Yeah, Em, that sounds good to me. I look forward to usurping you both as Henry and Roland’s favorites. And tomorrow’s going to kind of fun right, too?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Did Gina not tell you? Or David? This was kind of his idea.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“Ah, well, shit,” Will sighed, hitching his camera up and hitting himself in the hip in the process. “That’s pretty lame. I’m definitely not the one who’s supposed to tell you. I’m just there to document.”   
  
“Speak actual sentences, Scarlet,” Killian muttered, a hint of a threat to his voice that didn’t belong in a day that also included ice cream taste tests.

God, he really wanted Emma to come home.

“This was not part of the plan,” Will reasoned. He rocked back on his heels, glancing around the room and everyone was far too busy doing something else.

Henry and Ruby were going to argue about MarioKart rules all night – the protocol of using shells and bananas – and David kept laughing under his breath, clearly just happy to be playing the game while Mary Margaret toyed with the back of his shirt, perched on the edge of another chair nearby.

Anna kept updating Instagram, holding her phone in front of her and Elsa and Belle as they made faces for the camera and Roland was talking about ice cream again, tugging Regina and Robin towards an amused looking Tink and Ariel.

Killian didn’t want to know the plan.

He just wanted it to be two days from now and certain nothing was going to happen in the middle of the Playstation Theatre.

He wanted to go with them to the Playstation Theatre even if his credential wasn’t really much of a credential anymore.

He didn’t actually have a byline.

And Emma still didn’t know why.

“What exactly was the plan?” Emma asked, kicking at Will’s shin when he didn’t answer immediately.

Will made a noise, a disagreement or a refusal and Emma kicked him again. “Ow, jeez, are you taking martial arts lessons in your spare time?”  
  
“What spare time would that be? Exactly?”   
  
“In between the flirting and the ice cream and moving into Hook’s apartment.”   
  
“Oh my God, Scarlet, shut up,” Killian growled, but Emma didn’t actually argue any of that, a fact his mind was quick to point out.

And maybe latch on to for the rest of time.

“This is not my job. I only know because A knew and she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”  
  
“Rude,” Ariel shouted, not taking her eyes away from the phone in front of her, but she did manage to throw a less-than-appropriate finger gesture Will’s direction. “And I only know because David told me and I had to get him some kind of knockoff VIP pass thing.”   
  
Emma’s whole body went tense against Killian, head darting towards the TV screen and David looked like he’d actually frozen on his chair.

“Detective,” she said softly, barely audible over fucking Yoshi in his fucking car. David heard. His shoulders moved. “What exactly have you been plotting?”  
  
The whole room paused and Mary Margaret couldn't seem to decide who to stare at, eyes darting between Emma and David and then back again like she was watching a particularly interesting tennis match where neither of the participants were actually moving.

“I’m not plotting anything,” David promised, but Emma didn’t actually move, just kept staring at him and waiting for the rest of the admission. He sighed. “It’s not plotting if I’m just doing my job, right?”  
  
“That sounds like you’re asking me what your job description is.” 

“I’m not. Because I know what my job is. And that’s to finish this goddamn investigation.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes and Killian’s own gaze flitted towards Mary Margaret – the worry clear on her face, but he wasn’t sure who it was directed at exactly. “How exactly does this investigation end, then?” Emma whispered.

“I can’t tell you that.”  
  
“Bullshit.”   
  
“Emma,” David sighed again, and she rolled her shoulders against Killian’s side, standing up to her full height. He held her hand.

She squeezed back.

“You’re going to be there tomorrow?” she asked, and he nodded. “I thought you were stuck on desk duty for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“There were, uh…special circumstances.”   
  
Emma tilted her head, the frustration practically wafting off her and Killian traced his thumb across a vein on the back of her hand. It was going to be fine. There was nothing to be worried about. He was going to be there.

He still had a credential.

And he’d gotten past plenty of security in his life.

“Ariel,” Emma snapped. David’s eyes widened in surprise when she shifted conversational gears, head twisting and he winced when he moved the wrong way.

“Pan mentioned something on his stream a couple of days ago,” Ariel admitted softly, ignoring David’s groans. Ruby hissed in a breath of air, wrapping her arm around Henry’s shoulders like she needed to remember there were good things in that room too and her other hand found Mary Margaret’s.

Emma was going to cut off the circulation to Killian’s right hand.

He didn’t even try to move.

“What did he say?” Emma pressed, and Ariel wavered, grimacing when she glanced at Robin.

He shrugged. “We already told David, A. We might as well tell the rest of them.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Ruby shouted, nearly yanking Mary Margaret out of the chair when she jumped up. “What don’t we know?”   
  
Ariel’s face flushed as red as her hair and it was the first time since he’d met her in the lobby that Killian could remember her not quite willing to say what was going on. “It’s not great,” she warned. “Like, the opposite of great. Killian, what is the worst possible word you can think of?”   
  
“There are kids here, A,” Killian muttered, and she let out a slightly manic laugh.

“And if it involves Second Star or whatever that Neal jerk is doing, don’t you think we should know?” Elsa asked. “We did agree to play spy.”  
  
“And Emma slapped Neal, so your ability to work undercover might not be so great,” David mumbled, but he stopped talking as soon as he felt several glares shot his direction.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, ok,” Ariel stammered. “I mean, we all bring up very good points, but the point of this was so everything would stay normal. Or normal’ish.”

Ariel waved her hands through the air, trying to pull Emma’s attention back from David, but she didn’t actually move until Killian muttered _Swan, we’re fine, love_ in her ear and then he couldn’t really think straight – green eyes staring back at him with the same kind of hope she’d had talking about school and ice cream taste tests and the entire goddamn borough of Staten Island.

“Keep going A,” Killian said, and she bristled slightly at the order. “Oh my God,” he sighed. “A, c’mon. Pan and the stream and the opposite of all things good.”  
  
She sighed dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest and maybe he should have been worried about _her_ plotting his murder by the end of the night. “Fine, but only because I like Emma more than you,” she chided.

“I like Emma more than me.”  
  
David made a strangled noise – trying, and failing, to swallow it when Emma’s eyes flashed towards him and Mary Margaret held her hands up in very clear warning. Will mumbled something about _painful flirting_ to Regina, but she just pulled Roland closer to her and Killian couldn’t actually understand the look on her face.   
  
“Ok, so we have pretty solid proof that Pan is not only Neal, but that Neal is working pretty closely with all things in this Lost Boys, Second Star operation,” Ariel began. “Because he mentioned something on the stream the other day that didn’t make sense.”   
  
Killian shook his head in confusion. “You’re still not explaining this very well.”   
  
“Stop cutting me off then.”

He grumbled something in the back of his throat, knees nearly giving out when Emma pushed up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “We’re fine, counselor,” she muttered, and maybe they were.

“You going to shut up?” Ariel asked, Will snickering from the other side of the room. “That includes you too, Scarlet. You need to pay attention because you’re going to be there tomorrow and you’ve got to document.”  
  
Will saluted and the entire room collectively rolled its eyes. “Anyway,” Ariel continued. “We’ve been so focused on congratulating ourselves for bringing in Hans the sleazy lawyer that we’ve all gotten kind of lackadaisical about the rest of it. We thought that once we got Hans, the whole operation would just fall apart, but, and this is only my opinion, I think Hans was just a means to an end. He was the legal-based muscle so to speak.”   
  
“In other words, we think that someone else is still helping Gold,” David added. “And we think Hans did enough damage while he was out on the streets that the dive back into the drug trade is, like, a perfect ten.”   
  
“That was a very complicated analogy,” Emma muttered. He smiled at her. And she finally started breathing again.

“Yeah, but you got it.”  
  
Ariel growled and David ducked his eyes, a not-quite audible  _sorry_ on his lips.

“It’s taken forever,” she said. “And I think that’s why we all just figured pulling out one of the cogs of the operation would be enough. The problem, though, is that Gold is, well, at the risk of complimenting him, he’s smart. There’s...a fail safe, I guess. And Hans was never the second. Neal-Pan mentioned it on the stream a couple of days ago. If you just heard it, you’d have no idea, but, you know, I’m kind of smart to so…”  
  
“Focus, Ariel,” Killian muttered, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“He mentioned faith and trust and that it would be, and I’m quoting here, available en mass sometime this week.”  
  
The room went silent.   
  
Or as silent as a room could go when MarioKart music was still playing in the background.

“What the hell does that mean?” Ruby demanded, glancing around like she was ready to challenge anyone who didn’t immediately provide her an answer.

“Oh, shit,” Emma whispered. Her head snapped up towards Killian when she realized and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly.

God _fucking_ damn.

They hadn’t actually done anything.

If anything, they’d just made them all even more desperate than they’d been before and Emma had slapped Neal.

“Could someone explain to me what is going on?” Anna asked. “Is that something important?”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, lips tugged back behind her teeth. “Faith, trust and…”   
  
“Pixie dust,” Robin finished, the words practically falling into the middle of the room and then, possibly, melting the floor.

Killian felt like he was free-falling.

“Which means what, exactly?” Elsa pressed.

Emma inhaled loudly, seemingly burrowing her way against Killian’s side and one of her arms found its way around his neck, other hand back on his shirt and he couldn’t come up with anything to do except kiss the top of her head.

Several times.   
  
“It means they’re going to start dealing,” David said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Tomorrow. At the final.”

“What?” Elsa shouted, and she wasn’t the only one. Ruby gaped at David, head darting around the room and shoulders heaving, and Tink slid down the wall, legs stretched out in front of her and that might have been the first and only time Belle had ever cursed in her entire life.

Emma didn’t say anything, just held onto the front of Killian’s shirt like some kind of cotton-based life vest. He kissed her again.

“How do you even know that?” Ruby asked, voice cracking on the question that didn’t seem actually directed at anyone.   
  
“I mean, that’s a pretty common phrase, Rubes,” David reasoned. She made a fist. “Ariel, look it up. I bet under the Peter Pan references, it’d all be there.”

“Do not test me, Detective Nolan.”

“It is! Someone back me up on this.”

“That’s what they sold in New Orleans,” Killian muttered, stomach clenching at the memory and the phrase and this was _insane_. His head hurt. That might have been the ridiculous amount of ice cream he’d eaten that afternoon.

Emma pulled her head up slowly, eyes wide and maybe just a bit desperate and he knew his smile didn’t even come close to genuine. “They were the Lost Boys,” he continued. “That was their whole schtick. Something about flying away and forgetting responsibilities and it’s as stupid as it sounds when you say it out loud, but that’s what they built an entire empire on.”  
  
“See,” David challenged, and Ruby lifted her hand. He slumped in his chair. “Lucas, I am still technically injured.”   
  
“David you can’t play that card now,” Mary Margaret said softly, and Emma snapped her head around, twisting against Killian.

“That’s why Ariel had to get you a VIP thing,” she yelled. “Are you raiding the Theatre in the middle of the final tomorrow?”  
  
David shook his head. “No, no, we are...observing. On the off chance that these idiots are actually going to try and deal in the middle of a video game tournament.”

“Don’t we know that already? I thought Neal made that rather blatantly obvious. And, you know, if Wesselton was back in New Orleans with Hans then it only makes sense that they’d try to move product, right? That’s how this works.”  
  
“Goddamn brilliant, Swan,” Killian mumbled, and she actually smiled when she turned back towards him.

Will groaned. “Jeez, they’re flirting again. We’re all going to get shot tomorrow and they’re flirting with each other.”

“You really just hate yourself, don’t you?” Regina asked. He grinned.   
  
“No one is getting shot tomorrow because no one is going to be doing anything differently than normal tomorrow,” David said, voice taking on a serious edge that didn’t belong in Granny’s upstairs party room. “That was why we weren’t going to say anything,” he added, nodding in Emma’s direction.

She lifted her eyebrows.

“I’m going to be there,” David sighed. “Lance will be there. Half a dozen uniforms will be there. We really don’t think there’s going to be any trouble, but…”  
  
“There’s a but then?” Emma interrupted, and for half a moment Killian got a glimpse into that house in Storybrooke and just how protective they were of each other. Mary Margaret kept pressing her hands into her cheeks and blinking quickly, Ruby’s hand rubbing out circles on her back while she muttered encouragements in her ear.

“But,” David said sharply. “If something does happen and Neal-Pan or whatever name he wants to use decides that he’s going to try and get a few brownie points from the boss by selling pixie dust in the middle of midtown Manhattan tomorrow, then we’ll be ready for it.”  
  
“He’s totally going to do it,” Ariel said. “This latest Pan stream was coming from a different IP than the other ones I’ve been able to search.”   
  
Emma sighed. “Let me guess. It’s a building Robert Gold owns?”   
  
“Ding, ding, ding.”   
  
“And what exactly was Scarlet talking about before? Why did he know the plan and we didn’t?”   
  
“We just went over this, Em,” David said. “We need you guys to be normal tomorrow. We need this to go as smoothly as possible if we’re going to get all of them. We know that Jeff has experience dealing before. He’ll probably run point on it if anything does actually happen.”   
  
“Won’t he be kind of busy playing a video game tournament?” Killian asked, curiosity getting the better of him again and Robin tried to turn his laugh into a believable cough.

It didn’t work.

And they probably shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of Henry and Roland.

They were playing MarioKart again.

“You tell me,” David said. “What was his game in New Orleans?”  
  
Killian blinked at the question – not entirely prepared for a not-real police raid less than twenty-four hours before the final of this stupid video game tournament and he really just wanted to get slightly buzzed and then try and figure out how he was supposed to sleep through the night.

_It was going to be fine_.

“You didn’t want to ask this before?” Killian questioned, and David might have absently reached for his gun. Mary Margaret mumbled _oh my God_ under her breath. “You know, before the plotting or a little earlier than the night before? Or maybe while I was still working for a very prominent website? I don’t even know that they’ll let me in tomorrow.”

“I could probably arrest you,” David warned. “But, as previously discussed, you like my sister.”  
  
“Quite a bit.”

“David, for real?” Emma gaped. “We’re going to do this absurd overprotective thing now? Like, right now?”

He shrugged. “It’s been stewing around for awhile, but I was trying to wait until I wasn’t actually still walking wounded to challenge him to a duel or something.”  
  
Emma sighed, but the tension in the room seemed to dissipate just a bit when Ruby actually started to cackle. Will wrapped his arm around his waist, not quite able to hold himself upright and Anna hooked her chin over her shoulder when she started to laugh as well.

And for as frozen as the room had been before, it was the opposite in that moment – light and almost _airy_ and neither of those things made sense because it was nine o’clock at night and the party room didn’t actually have any windows.

But David almost looked serious about challenging Killian to a duel and that almost felt normal and for a few hours they all seemed to breathe just a bit easier.

The alcohol helped too.

And he’d almost gotten good at MarioKart. And Emma kept kissing his cheek.

They stayed far longer than they probably should have when there was a video game final to play the next day and a not-quite raid to stage and, maybe, arrests to be made and both Henry and Roland had fallen asleep by the time Regina announced they were leaving.

The rest of them didn’t look too far behind – Anna’s eyes drooping when she leaned against Will’s shoulder and Ruby had her head on Belle’s lap, feet draped over Elsa’s thigh.

Emma’s legs were twisted around Killian, one arm wrapped around his waist while he toyed with the ends of her hair.

“I have to move,” Emma mumbled, and she only managed to press her head into his side.

He chuckled softly, swinging his legs up onto an empty chair in front of him. “You’re doing an admirable job of it, love.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”   
  
“Is this flirting too?”

“You’re obnoxious.”  
  
“Endearing.”   
  
Emma pulled her head up, using the heel of her hand for leverage and he couldn’t quite stop the hiss that fell out of him when she pushed into, at least, four different organs. “I really have to go back to M’s and David’s. Mary Margaret baked. I think there are actually little fondant video game controllers on the top of the cupcakes.”   
  
“When does she even find the time?”

“Ah, well, she’s not worried about anyone getting shot tomorrow.”  
  
“No one is going to get shot,” Killian said, but he couldn’t actually promise that and that was some kind of relationship hurdle he’d never really expected.

And he’d never really expected the relationship.

“You say that with such conviction,” Emma laughed, and she looked half asleep too, a mix of alcohol and far too many onion rings and chocolate sprinkles. “You’re really going to be there tomorrow?”  
  
Killian nodded. “Of course. Where else am I going to be?”   
  
“You said that you didn’t know if your credential was going to work.”   
  
“Semantics. And a very large maybe. It still says my name and, as far as I know, I’m still me. Plus, those security guards have seen us making out plenty of times, they’re bound to recognize me at this point.”   
  
“We’ve circled right back to obnoxious.”   
  
He grinned and kissing her was a distinct type of challenge when they were trying to balance on one seat and his legs, but he’d finally gotten that buzz he was a bit desperate for and he hadn’t been lying to Ariel before, so, he was willing to twist around if it meant he could feel her smile when his lips caught hers.

“I love you,” she whispered, fingers working through his hair and he could feel every inch of her against every inch of him like she was a fire or flames or the center of the universe. “And I’m...if all of this was just, you know, whatever it is, then I’m glad it ended here.”  
  
He was on fire.

He was going to burn and enjoy it and then maybe evolve into the sun and then he’d orbit her or however this metaphor was going and none of it made sense because he was fairly positive that’s not how the sun worked.

He took one science class his freshman year.

Maybe they could look that up when Emma went back to school.

After all of this. When it was normal again.

“It doesn’t end here, Swan,” Killian said, and that wasn’t really what he’d planned on. “What happens next, right?”  
  
“No more stories though.”   
  
“Maybe eventually.”   
  
“Definitely,” she said, a certainty in her voice that did something to the metaphorical flames and the structure of whatever solar system he’d just come up with.  

“There’s cinnamon in my pocket you know.”  
  
She laughed – simple and _loud_ and someone else mumbled to _be quiet, we’re sleeping_ – and Killian felt it in the very center of his goddamn soul, like he _could_ feel that or had a soul and maybe he’d found both of those things when he came home.

Liam was probably laughing somewhere.

“We’re never going to run out of cinnamon,” Emma mumbled, pressing her lips against his neck.   
  
“That’s kind of the plan.”  
  
She didn’t move her head, but he could feel her trying to tug her lips back behind her teeth and this had to work. He needed this to work. He wasn’t sure what he would do if this didn’t work.

“Good plan,” Emma said, and Killian hummed in the back of his throat, giving up on sentiment to just try and hold her as tightly as he possibly could.

“Jones,” David called from the other side of the room and both Killian and Emma twisted at the sound. They nearly fell off the chair. “A word?”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma and she shrugged slightly, not quite as steady once their vaguely precarious balance had been altered. “I’ll be right back, love,” he promised, kissing here again quickly before he disentangled their limbs.

“Can I help you, Detective?” Killian asked, David leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Because I’d like to find a cab if possible.”  
  
“It’s Times Square.”   
  
“Not an answer.”   
  
David rolled his eyes, but Mary Margaret had moved into Killian’s vacated seat and was already braiding Emma’s hair like that was just something that _should_ happen at whatever time it actually was. “You’re really going to be there tomorrow?” David asked.

“Yeah,” Killian nodded. “Or, at least, breaking and entering.”  
  
“Don’t tell me that.”   
  
“Helm was low level with the Lost Boys,” he said, answering a question David hadn’t actually asked yet. “But he knew everyone. Anyone and anything who was willing to shell over money for Pixie Dust, Helm knew about it. That’s why the DA was so adamant about getting him to give up names. He’s the one who would have them all.”   
  
“But Hans got Helm out early.”   
  
“Yeah, I still can’t figure that part out.”

“That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you,” David muttered, doing his best to back up against a wall that couldn’t actually move. “I think Neal helped get him out. Or told Hans to get him out.”  
  
“What?”   
  
David clicked his tongue. “I have no proof of that except a decades worth of hating Neal Cassidy for what he did to Emma, but it almost makes sense, right? If he was there ten years ago and just disappeared off the map after he got arrested, then he must have known Helm was there too and they go way back. They screwed Emma over together.”   
  
“You think Helm was in on the betting stuff too?” Killian asked. “Do you think he’s doing that here too? He seems far too low-level for that much responsibility.”   
  
“Ah, but Gold is getting desperate. We got Hans the sleazy lawyer and we, at least, can confirm the connection to Wesselton and that leads us to the shipping idea once we can get Wesselton out of New Orleans. He’ll talk. I know it.”   
  
“And that, what? Leads directly to Gold?”   
  
“It could,” David said. “Something else too. I don’t think anyone in the Lost Boys realize we know that Pan is Neal.”   
  
Killian snapped his head up – tracing back through a conversation with Cora and accusations and he’d never actually _said_ it. No one expected them to know that Pan was advertising drugs on his goddamn live stream.

“Holy shit,” Killian breathed, and David hummed in victory, smile inching over his face like he’d just been promoted to sergeant.

“Right? Ace up our sleeve or something that makes me sound less lame.”  
  
“Ah, that didn’t sound too lame.”   
  
“I’m still more than willing arrest you.”   
  
Killian chuckled, running a hand through his hair and glancing back towards Emma – draped over several chairs now and Mary Margaret still playing with her hair and he barely had to look to know that she’d fallen asleep.

None of them were ever going to eat those cupcakes. It’d be a miracle if they ever got out of Granny’s.

“Yeah, I’d imagine you are,” Killian muttered. “What happens tomorrow when they do start to move stuff? Honestly.”  
  
“We arrest them. Honestly.”   
  
“Do you think Gold will be there?”   
  
“Do you?”   
  
“No,” Killian admitted, frustration shooting down his spine and he still had so many questions it felt like there was a weight hanging off the tip of his tongue. “I don’t think the asshole would risk it.”   
  
“Me either,” David sighed. “You know if Cassidy even glances Emma’s direction, I might actually pull my gun on him.”   
  
“She’ll probably slap him again.”   
  
David hummed again, resting his head back on the wall and pulling his hands out of his pockets just to cross them over his chest. “I won’t actually go through the entire speech I had prepared since I think you’ve kind of proved yourself, but, uh, insert something about also killing you if you don’t show tomorrow or do anything that isn’t exactly what you’ve been doing already.”   
  
“That was kind of tough to follow.”   
  
“I think you picked up on most of it.”   
  
“Aye, aye, Detective,” Killian grinned. “It’s going to be fine. And I’ve told myself that enough already that I really do almost believe it.”   
  
“Yeah, you and me both.”   
  
Emma had absolutely fallen asleep, hair draped over Mary Margaret’s leg and Mary Margaret was half asleep as well by the time Killian crossed the room, crouching in front of both of them with his heart hammering against his chest.

“Swan,” he said softly, brushing his fingers over the curve of her shoulder and she mumbled under her breath. “Just wake up for a few seconds, love.”  
  
She grumbled again, cracking open one eye and he felt the smile on his face as soon as she looked at him. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah. Are you guys actually going to go home or are you just going to camp out here?”  
  
“I really don’t care.”   
  
He laughed at the answer that was more of a complaint than an answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Swan. With coffee. Don’t buy your own coffee.”   
  
“I’m going to drink coffee before I get to the Theatre.”   
  
“Naturally,” he grinned. “I’ll bring more.”

“With cinnamon.”  
  
Killian pressed a kiss against her temple, careful not to actually run his body into Mary Margaret’s knee in the process. “I understand the rules, love,” he muttered, fingers still moving and tracing across the chain around her neck and she’d never actually taken it off. That made it difficult to breathe again.

“For good luck,” she said softly, and he was fairly sure she was still half asleep, but his mind didn’t seem to care. His pulse certainly didn’t, hammering in his veins and his ears and Emma closed her eyes again.

“Exactly that.”  
  
It didn’t take long to hail a cab – it was, as David pointed out, Times Square and a Friday night and it only took a few minutes to get uptown. He mumbled something that might have been _thank you_ when he got out of the car, slamming the door closed behind him and trying to remember how he’d been able to sleep by himself for most of his life. He didn’t take another step towards the building.   
  
He didn’t have a chance.

He stumbled back when a fist collided with his jaw, nearly falling off the sidewalk and he was dimly aware of his keys clattering to the ground.

“Compliments of Mr. Barrie,” a low voice said, and Killian couldn't open his mouth before another punch landed and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize, but I am also not entirely sorry, so...the stuff. It's all happening. And for realz this time. Like. For realz, for realz. Thank you again and always and forever for clicking and reading and commenting. It's the nicest. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	30. Chapter 30

Her eyes felt heavy.

She wasn’t entirely sure that was possible, or healthy, but her eyes didn’t seem to care and Emma groaned when she moved, shifting on her side and she’d never really fallen asleep.

The floor was uncomfortable.

And it really didn’t have anything to do with the floor at all.

She ran her hand over her face – and her still-heavy eyes, squeezing them closed even tighter, like that would, somehow, make them feel more like normal body parts or stop Ruby from inadvertently kicking her when she flipped and flopped approximately two-hundred times in her sleep.

It did not.

And no one else was awake yet.

Ruby rolled again, jabbing her elbow into Emma’s side and she bit back her immediate exclamation, biting her lip so tightly she drew blood.

“God damn, shit,” she mumbled under her breath, swiping her tongue against the corner of her mouth and she was fairly positive that tasting blood before she’d even really woken up was some kind of horrible sign.

Anna muttered something a few feet away, hand hanging off the side of the couch and legs twisted up with Elsa’s and it was some kind of miracle that they both managed to fit on the one piece of furniture.

Tink was twisted in the only other chair in the living room while Belle was on Ruby’s other side and, likely, just as bruised as Emma was.

Emma couldn’t actually remember how they got back to Mary Margaret and David’s the night before. Or how her hair got into the braid it was still in. Maybe that’s why her eyes hurt – hair pulled too tight against the back of her skull and that didn’t make much sense either.

It was going to be fine.

_Everything was going to be fine._

There was no reason to worry.

There was...a million and two lies and a million and two reasons to worry and Emma was fairly positive they absolutely _could not_ win, certain that Second Star had figured out a way to control the game in ways that made her head spin even when she was still laying down and her stomach lurched slightly when the room spun.

She shouldn’t have had so much ice cream the afternoon before.

She tried to take a deep breath, keeping her eyes closed and hoping that maybe, somehow, the tension she could feel in between her eyebrows would dissipate before she had to get up.

She had to get up.

Soon.

They had to get up soon and play fixed video games and, maybe, play against some immovable force of crime and deceit and just a general sense of _bad_ and the room spun again.

“Damn,” Emma muttered, wiping the back of her hand on her mouth. Her lip was still bleeding.

That felt like a sign too.

_Everything was going to be fine._

“Stop talking so much,” Ruby grumbled, the words barely making sense when she flipped again, flinging her arm over Belle’s waist and burrowing her face in her hair.

Emma smiled – the twist of muscles feeling strange at whatever time it was and her phone was...somewhere. She hadn’t even looked for it the night before, certain David or Mary Margaret or someone who was consistently more responsible than she was would make sure they weren’t late for their undercover escapades or whatever they were going to call them.

She needed to find her phone.

It was under her foot.

Figured.

She twisted, trying to drag her phone up towards her with her toes, but her body absolutely did not bend that way and Ruby wouldn’t even flinch at the prospect of murdering her if Emma woke her up again.

“It’s going to be fine,” Emma whispered, not sure who she was talking to and resolutely refusing to accept the idea that she was talking to herself.

She brushed her thumb over the ring hanging over her t-shirt and grabbed her phone, slamming her finger into the home screen and there wasn’t anything there.

Emma felt her eyebrows quirk down, lips twisting and she winced when her teeth pressed into the cut that wasn’t still bleeding, but still managed to hurt like hell. And, well, that was fine. She didn’t really expect messages or updates or anything, not really, and she certainly hadn’t sent him anything saying she’d made it crosstown, but she couldn’t actually remember how she got crosstown.

So maybe she expected something.

She considered her options for a moment – each one feeling just a bit more _high school_ than the next. “Fuck it,” Emma muttered, swiping her thumb across the screen and Ruby kicked her.

**7:17 am: Hey. It’s me. Obviously. My name comes up with the text.**

Emma scowled at her own message, thumb moving and hitting send before her brain had given its explicit permission. She tried to take a deep breath and it didn’t really work, laying on her back still and her lungs kind of felt like they were collapsing.

**7:18 am: Still me. And it’s super early and I know you’re probably grumbling about vibrations, but that’s why you should put your phone on silent at night.**

**7:18 am: But I guess, I’m just...worried? That’s super lame. Is it?**

**7:19 am: Shit.**

**7:19 am: Ok, so I’m worried. Even if it’s lame. But David got shot, so I think I’ve got an excuse and I’m still pretty tired and I didn’t really sleep and Ruby keeps beating me up.**

She waited half a moment, fairly certain that allusions to being beat up in her quasi-sleep would, at least, get some kind of response or acknowledgement that the worry eating away at the back of her brain was wholly unwarranted.

Her hand drifted back towards the chain around her neck when it didn’t and Emma tried to find a spot on her lip she hadn’t already bitten to complete shit.

She snapped around when she heard a noise behind her, heart leaping into her throat like she hadn’t realized there was an intruder in the kitchen the entire time she’d been sitting there.

Emma dropped her phone back into the pile of blankets someone must have pulled out of the closet the night before, grabbing one and slinging it around her shoulders as she wove her way towards the sound.

Mary Margaret was crouched in front of a cabinet, mumbling under her breath as she tried to keep her balance. She fell over when she heard Emma’s footsteps.

“M’s,” Emma started, tugging her blanket even tighter around her. “What are you doing? Why are you even awake?”  
  
“Teacher?”   
  
“Why was that a question?”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugged, nearly smiling when she twisted and actually just sat down in the middle of her kitchen. “I honestly have no idea,” she admitted softly, nodding towards the spot of linoleum next to her.

Emma sat down.

“God, this floor is freezing,” she laughed, letting her head rest on Mary Margaret’s shoulder as soon as she sat down. “Why is that? You think that’s a sign?”  
  
“Of what?”   
  
“An impending ice age?”   
  
Mary Margaret snorted slightly, the cabinet door still open next to her and the coffee maker _dinged_ above both of their heads. “Look who’s asking questions now,” she said. “And I don’t think we’re preparing for an ice age quite yet. Although, you know, science has shown that we’re well on our way and we really should be decreasing…”   
  
“M’s,” Emma interrupted, reaching around to tug on Mary Margaret’s suddenly wild hands. “Please stop talking about the impending ice age. I don’t know that my mind is quite ready to deal with global warming or decreasing my carbon footprint.”   
  
“How did you know I was going to say that?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes. “Please. It’s insulting that you think I wouldn’t know you were talking about decreasing your carbon footprint. It’s all you’ve talked about since you were seventeen and your dad inexplicably got the National Geographic channel in his new cable package.”

“Did we ever figure out why that happened?”  
  
“I think it was his not so-subtle attempt at trying to get us away from video game consoles and learn something.”   
  
“Subtlety was not exactly his strong suit.”   
  
“I’d like to say something about genes and chromosomes here,” Emma said. “But we didn’t really ever watch enough National Geographic for any of that to stick.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed, shoulder shaking underneath Emma’s head as she tried to pry apart the blanket in between them. “Yeah, that’s true,” she agreed. “It was always about the game, wasn’t it?”   
  
Emma hummed, twisting the blanket to drape it over both her and Mary Margaret’s let. It wasn’t close to comfortable – a pretzel of limbs and feelings and memories and Emma’s hair was knotted up underneath Mary Margaret’s arm.

She didn’t try and move.

She didn’t even try and say anything, the thoughts racing in her head seemingly trying to work their way out through her still heavy eyes and that was, easily, the most disgusting thought Emma had ever had.

They sat there for what felt like several lifetimes and Emma’s breathing almost evened out, the distinct lack of sleep she’d gotten when she was playing punching bag for Ruby the night before catching up with her in the middle of the kitchen.

Her mind, however, wasn’t quite ready to slow down and the worry returned quickly, demanding to be acknowledged and voiced and Mary Margaret sighed softly when she realized the moment was over.

“Yeah, me too,” she whispered, burrowing against Emma’s side until she had one arm wrapped around her middle.

And if Emma had ever felt like Mary Margaret's daughter before then she felt like that and then some now, the hold around her waist feeling like the woman next to her was trying to pull all the worry out of the very center of her and carry it herself and that was probably why she’d gotten up so early.

“Did you sleep at all?” Emma asked, and Mary Margaret made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat.   
  
“It’s going to be fine.”   
  
“You’re even a worse liar than Killian is.”   
  
“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” Mary Margaret said, but there was a hint of a laugh lingering in her voice. “There’s a plan. There are plenty of officers going to be there. They’re only really going to do something if something else happens.”   
  
“You’ve rationalized the whole thing.”   
  
“Haven’t you?” Mary Margaret challenged.

Emma didn’t have an answer. Or, well, she had several different answers and several different rationalizations and she should have brought her phone with her into the kitchen if only to make sure she could respond to text messages in a timely manner.

If she had text messages to reply to.

No. That was a dangerous train of thought. It was fine. Killian wasn’t obligated to alert her as to his whereabouts at all times. He’d told her he was leaving Granny’s and promised to bring coffee that morning.

Or had she dreamed that?  
  
She didn’t think so. She was fairly sure he’d kissed her before he left too.

“Do you know what the angle was?” Emma asked suddenly, pulling her head away from Mary Margaret’s and both of them groaned when they slammed several different body parts into several different cabinets.

“What are you talking about?” Mary Margaret asked.

“I’m going to take that as a no.”  
  
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about. And that’s not just because I’m horribly sleep deprived.”

“I thought it was going to be fine,” Emma said, pushing her elbow into Mary Margaret’s side and working a quiet exclamation out of her. “Jeez, shout a little louder. Then Rubes can wake up and come over here to beat me up some more. I think I’m genuinely bruised.”  
  
“We should have gotten the air mattress out again, but I think the pump thing-abob broke a couple days after you moved out, so I’m not sure it would have been anything more than just sleeping on a sheet of plastic.”   
  
Emma quirked an eyebrow, tilting her head to gape at Mary Margaret – who seemed just as confused and sleep deprived as ever. “What?” she asked. “You were half asleep anyway. I figured when you told Killian you didn’t care about where you slept, we were pretty much in the clear.”   
  
“I didn’t move out,” Emma said, bypassing the rest of the conversation entirely. It was far too early for any of that. Or any of what she was willing to acknowledge, but her stomach did something stupid at the idea and her seemed to actually start to flutter in between her ribs.

Mary Margaret tried not to laugh. She did. Emma almost appreciated it. She would have appreciated it with a mug of coffee in her hand and a few less worries knocking around the back corner of her brain, but even so.

“I mean, not officially,” Emma mumbled. “There’s been no actual asking. It just kind of…”  
  
“Happened?” Mary Margaret finished.

“Yeah. I mean, that’s kind of been a trend with this whole thing hasn’t it? Just kind of stumbling through all of it.”  
  
Mary Margaret stared at her, something flashing across her face that might have actually been disappointment, but she schooled her features quickly, twisting out of the blanket to cup both of Emma’s cheeks in her hands.

“That’s not what’s been happening,” she said intently. “And the only thing that’s going to happen today is these Lost Boy, Second Star assholes getting some sort of comeuppance. If they think they can just...mess everything up like this, well, they’ve got another thing coming.”  
  
Emma blinked, trying to force any sense of emotion back into the very middle of her, but it didn’t work and her tears landed on the tips of Mary Margaret’s thumb. She brushed them away. And smiled.

Like she had forever.

“That was almost the most scathing thing you’d ever said, M’s,” Emma said. “Until you used the word comeuppance in an actual conversation.”  
  
“Make sure you tell Killian later. He can be impressed by my vocabulary.”   
  
Her laugh was watery at best, but it still managed to silence some of those worries and, maybe, for the first time _ever_ , Emma believed. And whatever happened next was going to be the goddamn best thing that had ever happened to her.

She wasn’t going to let it be anything else.

“Ah, well,” Mary Margaret grinned. “It’s early and you were talking in tongues before about story angles and he’s totally going to ask you to move in. I think he wants to make sure you won’t run.”  
  
“I won’t.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Emma shook her head and her lip was still cut up, pain shooting _somewhere_ when her teeth ground down. “Ah, shit,” she mumbled, working a quiet gasp out of Mary Margaret. “God, M’s, two seconds ago you were dispensing vigilante justice and now you’re scandalized by swear words.”

“There was no vigilante justice. There was proper justice. Done through the channels of proper police work and uniformed officers who won’t get shot this afternoon.”

Emma felt some of her laughter deflate, like a balloon popping in the very center of her and Mary Margaret was suddenly far more preoccupied with the ground. “No one is going to get shot,” she said. “I can’t...they’re not going to really deal during a video game tournament. That would be insane. Even Neal. I mean he was an ass, but drugs? You really think he’d do that?”  
  
“If he could walk away from you then I can’t even imagine what he’s capable of doing.”   
  
“You’re a giant sap.”   
  
“It’s because I’m tired.”   
  
“You’ve been a sap since you started caring about our carbon footprint and you’ve always had far too high an opinion of me.” Mary Margaret opened her mouth to argue, but Emma shook her head. “I told him,” she added. “Killian, I mean. About Neal and the jail time and the betting. Before the murder meeting.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s mouth hung open. “When?”   
  
“Weeks ago. Months, actually. Before the round. When he came here to pick me up.”   
  
“You should move in. Officially.”   
  
“After I tell him about that, make sure you mention what a fan you are because he wasn’t sure you were,” Emma said. “He’s very worried about making a good impression.”   
  
The coffee maker beeped again – probably just as surprised by Emma’s ease at discussing _relationships_ as Mary Margaret was, staring straight ahead like she’d just witnessed several large miracles.

Emma winced under the weight of the look, squeezing one eye closed and grimacing. “Ok, well, your overwhelming silence is super comforting.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mary Margaret stuttered, waving a hand through the air again. “I am just...stunned? Surprised?”   
  
“You’re really kind of digging yourself in there, M’s.”   
  
“And a couple months ago, you never would have even allowed yourself to imagine telling Killian any of that, let alone just offer it up on a date. A date that you went on. And never came home from.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but her stomach was still twisting and turning and churning and Mary Margaret knew her far too well. “This needs to work,” she said softly. “He...Gold ruined everything for him.”   
  
“Yeah, I kind of figured it had to be something like that. This is not some kind of one-sided thing, Emma. And he looks at you like you showed up and fixed everything.”   
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
“Ask anyone out there. Ask David.”   
  
“I don’t want to die before the police raid.” Mary Margaret made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, but Emma smiled, oxygen finally finding its way into her lungs and the room wasn’t spinning anymore. “He quit his job at Mills,” Emma continued. “That’s what I was talking about before.”   
  
“I still don’t get it.”   
  
The oxygen wasn’t doing its job anymore. “He quit his job at Mills,” Emma repeated. “When they arrested Hans the sleazy lawyer and he had to go into the office and Cora Mills told him to write something. He wouldn't do it.”   
  
Mary Margaret, somehow, managed to look even more surprised, blanket almost falling off her entirely when she twisted around to stare straight at Emma. She was breathing out of her mouth.

“What was the story?” Mary Margaret asked, voice strained and the words seemed to scrape out of her when she spoke.

Emma shrugged. “I asked you.”  
  
“Why would I know that?”

“You know everything,” Emma reasoned. “You knew Regina Mills and her kids and that’s what happened. Henry showed up because he was so scared Killian was going to leave New York if he got fired, but he didn’t get fired, he quit and he…”  
  
“Hasn’t left,” Mary Margaret said. Emma nodded. She was going to do permanent damage to her lip. “Did you think he would?”   
  
“No,” Emma said quickly. Mary Margaret laughed at her. “Ok,” she grumbled, twisting her hair around her finger and Mary Margaret’s eyes got even wider. “That’s just, you know, rude.”   
  
Mary Margaret leaned forward, resting her forehead against Emma’s and tugging her hand away from her hair. “Emma, listen to me. He couldn't. Not even if he tried. And I know he’s got baggage and I know whatever he did in New Orleans is a lot more than he’s willing to give up, but he is...whatever happens today, if they arrest Gold and it all comes full circle and he gets some closure, it’s not going to change a single thing.”   
  
“But the story…”   
  
“Did its job. It got him to New York and it got you guys some publicity and a legion of fans that will probably riot as soon as you get crosstown today.”   
  
“That would probably hurt David’s undercover ability.”   
  
Emma’s eyes darted up when the door closed softly on the other side of the apartment, suddenly realizing that David hadn’t actually been visible for the last fifteen minutes. She was the least observant person in the world.

“What’s going to affect David’s undercover ability?”

She rolled her eyes when David walked into the kitchen, eyebrows pulled low when he noticed Emma and Mary Margaret sitting on the floor, the blanket stuffed in between them and both of them were close to shivering.

The cabinet door was still wide open.

“What did I just walk into here?” he continued, leaning over both of them to drop a paper bag and box on the counter above their heads. “And should I be offended that you two are discussing my police schemes without me?”  
  
“See, the fact that just called it a scheme gives me pause,” Emma said. “Where have you been? Why is everyone in this apartment up so early? We’re all horrible stereotypes.”   
  
“Em, I literally work nine to five every day. Mary Margaret needs to be at school at eight o’clock. The only one disputing their potential stereotype is you and I know you're awake because you’re worried about today. It’s going to be fine.”   
  
“You know the more we all keep using that phrase, the less meaning it seems to hold.”

“We should come up with another word for fine,” Mary Margaret suggested. “What’s another word for fine?”  
  
“Why are you looking at me?” Emma asked.

“You’re living with a journalist.”  
  
David made a noise, holding his hands up like he couldn't fathom the idea of Emma even acknowledging that boys existed and she didn’t think she dreamed him talking to Killian last night either. Maybe she’d been far more cognizant than she realized.

“Sit down,” Emma commanded, kicking her foot out and wincing when her heel fell back against the linoleum. “You’re totally freaking me out. And we could say that everything is going to be alright too.”  
  
Mary Margaret hummed in agreement, but David just crossed his arms and did his best _police officer_ impersonation. He already had his badge strapped to his belt.

“Or maybe it won’t be alright,” Mary Margaret murmured, tugging the blanket back up over both her and Emma.

David sighed, crouching in front of them and pressing one hand flat on the floor to keep his balance. “It’s going to be fine and alright and possibly even outstanding depending on what we can get them on today.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Emma asked.

It hit her suddenly – nearly knocking her back into the cabinet she was leaning against and Anna made a noise from the living room, mumbling into what must have been a phone and, presumably, a boyfriend who answered his.

Shit.

“You know I’ve been wondering about that,” Emma continued, and she wasn’t sure whose answering noise was more confused.

David’s eyes darted towards Mary Margaret and the cabinet door shook slightly when her shoulders hit against it. “I don’t know, she’s talking in tongues,” Mary Margaret explained. “I think it’s because she hasn’t had any coffee.”  
  
“Jeez,” David said. “I really did miss everything, didn’t I? The coffee’s done though. What could be more important than caffeination?”

Emma groaned, trying to kick at David again and it didn’t work. Again. “I’m sitting right here,” she hissed. “And I’m exhausted and bruised to hell and I really want to know why the New York Police Department hasn’t made a move on Neal when we know he’s running lines.”  
  
David blinked, licking his lips quickly and his eyes flashed towards Mary Margaret again. Emma waved an impatient hand through the air, nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process.

“Hey,” she snapped. “I’m sitting right here. Don’t look at M’s. I’m the one asking the questions here.”  
  
“Journalist,” David accused, but Emma glared at him and he sighed, crossing his legs underneath him and they all probably looked absurd on the floor. “And it’s because, per the DA, the only thing we have to build off of his Humbert’s word.”   
  
“And everything Ariel has done.”

David clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that's not exactly legal? I mean, don’t tell her that, because she’ll probably figure out a way to get all my connected devices infected with some kind of heinous virus only she has the kill code for.”  
  
“She’d think that was a compliment,” Mary Margaret muttered, and Emma actually started to laugh until she realized how out of place that was and remembered how early it still was.

“You should totally tell her that when you see her later,” Emma nodded.

David took a deep breath, chest rising and falling with the force of it and, that time, Emma looked at Mary Margaret. “She’s not going to be there later,” he said softly. “I...haven’t...well, this might be more complicated than I originally thought it was going to be.”  
  
“It wasn’t complicated before?”

“Well, yeah, it was, but here’s the thing. The DA, she, uh, wants to kind of wants to go for the jugular so to speak.”  
  
“Well, that’s gross,” Emma muttered, and Mary Margaret tried to bite back her laugh again. David did not look impressed.   
  
“If we’re going to take down Robert Gold, we’re going to change the entire fabric of this city and, seemingly, the entire goddamn country. So the DA and the Feds agree. There’s no point in going after the betting stuff.”   
  
Emma let out a rush of air she hadn’t been trying to hold onto, body falling forward with the force of it and David flashed her a tense smile. “But,” she stammered. “The betting is the only thing we’re fairly certain is happening. You have a witness on that.”   
  
“I know, Em,” David sighed. “I know. And, trust me, Lance and I have been trying to get someone else to believe that this is important. But we’ve got one witness and the idea that you guys were supposed to lose in the third round. That’s, uh, that might be why Ariel isn’t going to be there today?”   
  
“Was that a question?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“You want to explain that some more?”   
  
“I mean, you know, not really,” he admitted, and Emma leaned forward just enough to push her knuckles into his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “She’s on observation duty,” David explained. “She’s going to be watching the lines and she can get into some backend of some sort of wifi in the Theatre itself and if she can see what they’re trying to do with the game, she might be able to help us.”   
  
“I thought you were ignoring the betting angle.”   
  
“The DA is. The Feds are. I am...not.”   
  
“Why?” Emma asked, and Mary Margaret made another vaguely ridiculous noise. “What? That’s a genuine question.”   
  
David almost looked disappointed, spinning onto his knees and pressing a kiss on Emma’s forehead. “Because I want him gone,” he whispered, holding onto both of her shoulders like he was trying to keep himself centered. “I want him to have as many charges to his name as a single human being possibly can and then I want you to keep smiling as much as you have in the last nine months.”   
  
Emma blinked quickly and the tears didn’t do her bidding again, flowing easily and emotionally and David wiped them away as quickly as they came. “Let me fix this, Em,” he whispered, and she could feel it in her soul and her heart and she bit her lip again.

She was never going to stop crying.

Or get off the kitchen floor.

And Detective David Nolan, pride of the New York Police Department and the 17th Precinct and, possibly, Emma Swan’s personal hero, had blamed himself long enough.

They all deserved a bit of closure.

“What happens if Ariel actually finds something?” Emma whispered. “And what is there to find that she hasn’t already? Is it suddenly going to get more illegal than it has been?”

“Eh,” David shrugged. “Probably not. But if she can find something going on _while_ something else is going on, then, maybe the powers that be would be more apt to opening up some different avenues to this investigation.”   
  
“That was a lot of very fancy words and not an actual answer.”   
  
“I’m trying to avoid actual answers. It’s some misplaced effort to keep you safe while I’m also vaguely terrified something is going to happen.”   
Emma's eyes went dry – wide and anxious and she wondered if she had enough time before they had to get to the Theatre to not only find the closest Urgent Care, but also go to the closest Urgent Care because she was fairly positive she needed stitches in her lip.

“I thought we all came to a consensus on alright,” Mary Margaret said, head on Emma’s shoulder and hair falling across her eyes.

Emma wiggled her arm in between them, lacing her fingers with Mary Margaret and squeezing as tightly as she possibly could.  “We should have voted on the right catchphrase.”

“I mean alright is...you know, alright,” David reasoned. “And I’ve got no proof of this at all, but I’ve got a bad feeling about Cassidy.”

“What?”  
  
He shrugged. “No proof whatsoever, even Ariel’s not-quite-legal investigations or Killian’s ability to reason out just about any of this. I don’t know how to even explain it. I just think Cassidy is playing a different game than any of us are.”   
  
“Was that an actual attempt at a video game pun?” Emma balked, and David tried to smile.

“It wasn’t an attempt. It was a well-played execution. Red shell right up to the leader of the pack.”  
  
Emma shook her head, but her smile didn’t feel nearly as forced and the worries in the back of her mind stayed silent long enough that she managed to breathe in and out of her nose a few times.

“I’m happy,” she whispered, ducking her head and if Mary Margaret didn’t stop making ridiculous noises in the back of her throat Emma was going to drink all the coffee. And eat all the bear claws David presumably woke up early to buy.

He beamed at her, kissing her forehead again. “I know you are, kid,” he promised. “And that’s not going to change. Or I’m just going to go on an arrest spree.”  
  
“And no one is going anywhere, right?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma lifted her eyebrows, confused by the question until _that_ realization hit her to.

Mary Margaret thought she was going to run. Again. As per usual.

“No,” Emma promised, pleasantly surprised to find that she meant it and wanted it and a slew of other verbs she’d probably ask Killian about later that afternoon. “No one is going anywhere. Some may even actually start paying rent.”  
  
“I’m sure he’d actually be fine if you didn’t. Just to make sure you stay uptown as often as possible.”   
  
“I honestly don’t know who is more of a sap; you or your husband.”

“Oh he’s my husband now?” Mary Margaret asked. “When you see what kind of baked goods he bought I’m sure he’ll be your brother again.”  
  
“Ah, we’ll see,” Emma admitted, flashing a smile David’s direction. “I just...he needs to start writing again. I think he’s going stir crazy.”   
  
“He will.”   
  
“Mary Margaret Nolan, a picture of certainty and optimism.”   
  
It was supposed to be a joke, but it worked as well as it had before and Mary Margaret shook her head. “No,” she countered. “I just have eyes. And even David threatening to arrest him last night wouldn’t change anything.”   
  
There was not enough coffee in the entire world to prepare Emma for any part of that conversation.

“I went and bought baked goods,” David barked, not quite able to keep his voice low and Anna was still on the phone. “And you were supposed to be half asleep last night. You both were.”  
  
“Was that not actually a dream then?” Emma asked. “I really thought I made that up. Were you overprotective’ing last night?”   
  
“That’s not a word.”   
  
“Answer my question, Detective.”   
  
“I mean, maybe a little bit,” he admitted. “But with a purpose. And only because it’s part of the plan and I wanted to know what he knew about Helm in New Orleans.”   
  
“You think Jeff knows stuff?”   
  
David shrugged. “I think Helm is a convicted dealer who got out of jail before he was supposed to and Killian figuring that out sparked a hell of a lot of other stuff and now we’re here.”   
  
“And they wanted me,” Emma added softly, and she wished ideas would just stop attacking her in the kitchen. There were more grumblings from the living room and Emma needed coffee. “They wanted me,” she repeated. “At the very beginning. Do you...do you think that changed things? Gold said it was enough money to settle, that the team couldn’t believe I hadn’t agreed. That was Neal talking. He couldn't believe I’d walk away from that.”   
  
She didn’t ask the next question, the words hanging off the tip of her tongue, but David and Mary Margaret already knew.

“No,” they both said, the word practically snapping across the entire apartment. Emma slumped forward, her chin colliding with her knee, but the smile was still, somehow, on her face and she, maybe, believed them.

Weird.

No, it was alright.

“No,” Mary Margaret repeated, low and determined as she squeezed the fingers Emma forgot she was still holding. “Don’t do that again. Coincidences and conveniences and then a few more coincidences and if you don’t tell Killian that you want to move uptown, officially, later this afternoon then I’m going to tell him you’re both idiots.  
  
David sounded like he was choking and Emma was dimly aware of Ruby cackling on the other side of the apartment, thoughts of sleeping any longer forgotten. Emma was fairly certain her face was on fire.

“Who are you today?” she asked, gaping at Mary Margaret when she just shrugged in response.

“I don’t know, but it’s kind of exhilarating.” She shrugged again, beaming at David and Emma, both still sitting on the floor, vaguely stunned and someone else was walking into the kitchen, what sounded like half a dozen blankets dragging behind her.

“You guys are so absurdly loud,” Ruby hissed. “Why is everyone in this apartment so loud?”  
  
“You were laughing two seconds before,” Emma accused.

“That’s because M’s is always absurdly good at reading your mind and have you really not officially moved uptown? I thought you did that like...months ago.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“No, seriously. Elsa,” she called, twisting to shout over her shoulder and a half-awake sound responded. “Did you know Emma thinks she and Jones haven’t been living together since he got this apartment?”   
  
The couch creaked, Anna mumbling something to, presumably, Will before dissolving into a fit of giggles that absolutely did not belong at any time earlier than eight in the morning. Elsa padded into the kitchen, twisting underneath the pile of blankets Ruby brought with her.

“Give me some of those,” she mumbled, and Ruby muttered a string of protests and demands for coffee before giving in. “Em,” Elsa continued. “You really think that? Is that true? Do you even have any clothes here? I mean you’re wearing…”  
  
Emma lifted her eyebrows. “Finish that sentence.”   
  
“Scarlet told Anna who told me who also heard it from Ruby who got confirmation from Regina. That’s his brother’s ring.”

Emma’s face flushed even more, but she didn’t feel the sudden need to sprint anywhere. Weird.

“His dead brother?” David asked, ever the soul of tact. Elsa almost looked surprised. Ruby laughed again. “What? So I looked some things up. And how do you think he’s been paying for his apartment since he got fired? The government pays.”  
  
“That’s kind of bitter,” Ruby muttered. She glanced back at Emma, a smile still on her face like it was carved there, but it flickered slightly when she noticed the look on her face. “What are we missing? Is his brother not dead?”

“Jeez, Rubes,” Mary Margaret chastised.

Ruby mumbled _eh_ , eyes not moving away from Emma and it probably shouldn’t have been surprising that Elsa figured it out first. “Oh,” she breathed. “That’s what Scarlet was talking about. I thought he was just making it up.”   
  
Emma tried to move, but her legs didn’t want to cooperate and David’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he noticed her tug on her ring. “What does Scarlet think he knows?” Emma asked.

“That Killian didn’t get fired. That he told Cora he quit. And wouldn’t write a story.”  
  
“And does he know what the story was?”

Elsa shook her head. “If he did, he didn’t tell me.”  
  
“God damn.”   
  
She should have asked earlier. She should have pressed or pushed or those same verbs she still couldn't come up, but she’d been so distracted by the way he stared at her and how _incredibly good_ he was at kissing her and he’d stolen her more cinnamon.

They were starting some kind of cinnamon collection on that one shelf above the stove.

And Emma was totally living with Killian.

That wasn’t nearly as terrifying a prospect as she thought it would have been.

She pushed off the ground, kicking close the still-open cabinet and staring at her friends like she was challenging them to something. “It’s going to be fine,” Emma proclaimed. Mary Margaret shook her head, Emma’s shoulders sagging slightly under how ridiculous all of this was. “Fine, fine, fine,” she continued. “It’s going to be alright because that’s the adjective we’ve apparently decided on.

So it’s going to be that and we’re going to do whatever we can to make sure justice is served or whatever and no one gets hurt and then maybe, by some miracle of the video game gods we’ll overcome whatever kind of control Second Star has over the League and we won’t all be destitute when this ends.”  
  
Ruby grimaced. “Not exactly one of your better pep talks, Em.”   
  
“Should have saved it for the sidewalk outside the Theatre,” Elsa suggested.

“Nah, then she’d get distracted and start flirting with Jones and the whole operation would be null and void.”  
  
“I’m standing right here,” Emma growled, but Ruby didn’t blink. She smiled.

“I’m well aware.”  
  
“No baked goods for you.”   
  
“That’s not even fair,” Ruby shouted, lunging towards the counter and nearly knocking all the baked goods off the counter and ignoring David’s not-so-quiet reprimand and they were all awake now. “Whatever, I’m going to eat all your baked goods and then make obnoxious comments as soon as you and Jones start doing that gross eye thing you do.”   
  
Emma grabbed a bear claw, taking an exaggerated bite and glaring at Ruby. “Gross eye thing,” she echoed.

“Will agrees with that,” Anna shouted from the couch, and Emma stuffed the rest of the pastry in her mouth, mumbling under breath about _showers_ and _the plan_ and there was laughter lingering in the air when she closed the bathroom door behind her.

There weren’t any messages on her phone when she came back out.

Emma hit the number as soon as she looked down – it didn’t ring. Straight to voicemail and Ruby was totally right, she’d definitely do the gross eye thing as soon as she saw him because this was _wrong_ and something was _wrong_ , but her knees still felt slightly weak as soon as his voice played in her ear.

_Hi, you’ve reached Killian Jones, features writer at The Daily Caller. I’m not available, but leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. And if this is Ariel, stop trying to break into my office_.

She let out a shaky laugh, resting on the edge of the couch and tugging on the bottom of her team-branded t-shirt. The beep went off in the background and Mary Margaret was still standing in the kitchen, staring at Emma with a supportive smile she should probably have trademarked.

“Hey,” Emma said brightly, far too enthusiastic for the emotion churning in the pit of her stomach. “So, uh, you never called or answered my texts. And shit...that sounds like I’m accusing you of something. This is not my thing. The constant texting or the calling or the worrying, but, you know, today is today and you never called and I slept like shit and I guess I just want to make sure you’re ok. I really need…”  
  
She cut herself off, running out of oxygen in just enough time to stop herself from finishing that particular sentence and it didn’t really matter because everyone totally knew.

She hoped Killian knew.

Mary Margaret nodded, answering a question Emma hadn’t actually asked and she couldn’t understand how the voicemail hadn’t cut her off yet.

“I just...if you could call me back and let me know that everything is ok,” Emma continued, and she’d drawn an audience of team-branded t-shirts and David eating baked goods and they needed to leave. “Or, you know, just show up downtown. Soon. You know when to be there. There was a plan. I…”  
  
The voicemail clicked and an automated message played and she hadn’t actually finished her thought. He knew. God, she hoped he knew.

_It was going to be alright._

Regina booked them a car, because of course Regina booked them a car and there was already a crowd around the Playstation Theatre and media outlets and Emma scanned the crowd looking for someone she couldn't actually see.

“Emma,” Will shouted, waving his hands through the air and she pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the comments and the shutter snaps and more than one request for an autograph. “Emma! Here, come here.”  
  
Will reached forward, grabbing her around the wrist and tugging her forward and she nearly tripped over own feet. Her head darted around, glancing over shoulders and pressing up on her toes and he wasn’t there.

Killian wasn’t there.

“Did he come with you?” Will asked, bypassing specifics and the tense edge to his voice would have been obvious no matter where they were.

Emma shook her head. “No, we...he went home. He told me he was going home last night.”  
  
It was April, so it hadn’t gotten warm enough for the trash smell to really seep into the air molecules, but Emma was sure she could still smell it or feel it or maybe that was just the start of some kind of panic attack.

Will seemed to pick up on it immediately, shifting his shoulders so the cameras there wouldn’t actually hit her when he gripped both of Emma’s shoulders tightly. “Hey, hey,” he said, shaking her slightly and Emma blinked like she was trying to keep everything in focus. “It’s fine. Hook’s fine. He probably just…”  
  
“Do not say he slept in, Scarlet, we both know that isn’t true.”   
  
“If you weren’t so clearly freaking out, I’d make some sort of quip about you knowing that, but you’re totally freaking out, so I’ll restrain myself.”   
  
“You’re a picture of self control.”   
  
“Make sure to tell Hook that when you see him later. Because he’s going to be here later.” He flashed her a smile, tapping both his thumbs against her shoulder blades. “Did you call?”

“And texted,” Emma nodded. “Just like...a stalker’ish amount of times.”  
  
“Hook got A to break into Mary Margaret’s school system to get your address in some piss-poor attempt to woo you. If anyone is embracing their stalker-like tendencies, it’s him. And you guys weren’t even living together yet.”   
  
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”   
  
“Is that not what’s been going on?”   
  
Emma deflated slightly, immediately regretting the decision to breathe because someone next to her might have actually bathed in Axe body spray and that might have been even worse than the trash smell. She was almost impressed that someone was still buying Axe body spray.

“It’s totally what’s been going on,” Will said, answering his own questions. “And for what it’s worth, I should probably be thanking you.”  
  
She didn’t expect that.

She expected...people to be buying more Axe body spray before she expected Will Scarlet to thank her for anything.

“I don’t understand,” Emma said. “Thank me for what?”  
  
Will shook his head, something that looked like disbelief flashing across his face before he could grin at her again. “You didn’t know Hook before,” he started. “So you don’t know, but this is...he’s never been this.”   
  
“This?”   
  
“Happy,” Will stated, like it was obvious and important and it might have been both. “And not happy because he thinks he’s impressing a ghost or living up to a reputation Liam never actually would have wanted him to go after. Because he wakes up and realizes you’re the center of his goddamn universe and it’s like everything has settled for him. It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. You can ask Locksley too, if you want a second opinion.”   
  
Emma shook her head dumbly, not sure if she was disagreeing with Will or the sentiment or trying to regain her bearings after hearing _that_ word. Will didn’t realize, or, maybe did realize and Emma wasn’t sure which was worse, meeting his gaze when he ducked his head and nodded towards the ring hanging over the front of her shirt.

“He’s playing for keeps,” Will said.

Emma hoped her stomach hadn’t actually landed at her feet. It felt like it had.

“Good game pun,” she mumbled, and he laughed again, smile wide and meaningful. “Did you call him?”  
  
“Like, at least, fifteen times while I was waiting for you guys.”

Her stomach flipped – even if it was still at her feet – but Will nodded and they had to get into the Theatre and there was a game to play. And arrests to be made.

She tugged her phone out while they filed through the _talent entrance_ , ignoring the feel of her pulse just behind her eyes.

**11:32 am: Still me. Still worried. Actually listened to Scarlet’s pep talk. I love you.**

There were actual League requirements once they got into the building, streams to talk in front of and interviews to conduct and rules to go over. Emma’s eyes couldn’t seem to land on anything – flitting from spot to spot and person to person and she recognized, at least, seven different uniform’ed officers in the crowd.

And one of them was talking to Jefferson.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathed, drawing Elsa’s attention.

Her mouth formed a small ‘o’ when she followed  Emma’s gaze, leaning to her side slightly and they couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his hands were moving quickly and he looked like he was trying to dig the toe of his shoe into the floor.

“What the hell?” Elsa asked. “Do you think he knows that’s a cop?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “I have no idea. He looks...nervous? God, where did David say he was going to be?”   
  
“Upstairs.”   
  
“We’ve got to go play video games.”   
  
“They’re still doing stream stuff with Anna. I think she’s trying to drive up the fanbase. And, no, before you ask, I don’t think she cares that the fanbase doesn’t make much of a difference at this point.”   
  
Emma exhaled, making a noise in the back of her throat and she really needed to play the game if only so she had somewhere to sit down. She couldn’t do that. There was someone standing in her way.

Neal smiled at her, hands stuffed in his pockets and an easy sense of confidence practically wafting off him. He nodded Elsa’s direction. She looked like she’d already come up with sixteen ways to make sure none of the undercover police officers in the Theatre saw her murder him.

“Fucking hell,” Emma mumbled, and Neal actually had the audacity to laugh. “Get the fuck out of here, Neal. I’ve got a team to organize.”  
  
“If you have to organize your team now, Em, you’ve got some problems,” he argued, the smile still plastered there and she couldn’t believe she’d ever believed him. “You got a sec?”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“I want to talk to you.”   
  
She sneered at him, eyes flitting towards the second floor out of instinct and she really needed to be better at undercover. “Maybe this time you won’t slap me,” Neal continued, leaning forward until he was in her space and Emma huffed, digging her nails into her palm.

“I don’t have time for this,” she pressed, doing her best to walk around him. He caught her arm and Elsa gasped, taking a step towards Neal with her hand half raised already.

Neal dropped Emma’s arm, his own falling back to his side with a soft _thump_ and it felt like everything had slowed down. Or was going backwards. A decade backwards. To Maine and Portland and _settling_ and her phone was still painfully silent in her pocket.

He seemed to thrive on her discomfort, laughing again and shoulders shaking and Elsa might have actually growled.

Or thrown a curse at him.

It was difficult to hear in the Theatre.

“What could you possibly want?” Emma asked. “We’ve covered this already. I know. I know what you’re doing and who you’re working for and all of it. I’ve known for months.”  
  
“Ah, I’m not sure you should be quite as confident as you sound, Em,” Neal argued, rocking back on his heels and his smile had taken on some kind of _amphibian-like_ characteristic, slinking across his face and sending a chill down her spine. “Where’s your journalist?”   
  
“That’s not any of you business.”   
  
“Ah, so, not here then, huh? Interesting. I thought you two were on the fast track to some kind of happily ever after when this was all said and done. Guess it’s not just in the cards for him.”   
  
Her whole body tensed, shoulders rolling back as she tried to push herself to her full height and Neal didn’t look intimidated. He looked like he’d already won.

And Emma was fairly positive blood simply couldn’t just evolve into ice water, but she was also freezing and it felt like every single one of her veins had frozen solid.

The words twisted and turned and expanded in her head, pushing out everything else until she wasn’t ever going to be able to think anything else and it sounded different when Neal said it, sneered at her like it was an insult instead of the promise Emma knew it was.

The ring around her neck felt incredibly heavy.

“What are you talking about?” she whispered, the words feeling heavy on her tongue.

“He’s just got a habit of running doesn’t he?” Neal asked. “Things get tough and people, well, for him, they die, don’t they?”

She had to find David. She had to walk away and find David or Lance or someone with a badge and some kind of authority and, at some point, her brain had just started playing the game again.

_Primary fire. Primary fire. Primary fire. Attack._

It wasn’t working. And Emma was positive she was losing.

“I really thought you’d be smarter about this, Em,” Neal continued. “There was a chance for this to all go very differently.”  
  
“And how exactly is it going?” Emma asked. Her voice didn’t even sound like her own – hoarse and scratchy and painful in her throat – and Elsa’s hand landed on her shoulder while the question just seemed to hang in the air in front of them.

Neal laughed.

He laughed – head thrown back and body shaking and Emma tried not to blink.

“Ah, well, he’s not here is he?” Neal muttered, the humor in his voice somehow making Emma’s blood run even colder. “Guess he finally decided to get out when the byline was gone.”  
  
Her blood boiled.

Emma snapped her head up, and Neal stopped laughing immediately, eyes wide when he met her gaze. “What do you know?” she asked softly, enunciating between every word and he took a step back from her.

“What don’t you know?”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”   
  
“Ah, you don’t know, do you? What he did?“   
  
“Spit it out,” Emma shouted, and Elsa squeezed her shoulder lightly, an unspoken command to _relax_ that didn’t really work. “He quit! He didn’t want to write your shit or whatever Gold had planned.”   
  
Neal shook his head, tongue darting out between his lips when he glanced towards the ground. “Ah, you only got half the story, Em. That’s kind of been a trend for you this entire time though.”   
  
“Fine,” she snapped. “Fine! Fuck off, Neal. I don’t care. And this isn’t going to work.”   
  
Emma spun on the spot, but she almost fell over again when Neal shouted at the back of her head. “He did it for you!”   
  
She froze, breath coming in pants and she had no idea what her body temperature was, but it couldn't have been healthy when it felt like her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. “Excuse me?” she asked, and Neal chuckled again.

“You’re the only profile he didn’t write, Em. The only team member he didn’t background and you’ve got the most interesting background of any of them, don’t you? He was told to write it or get out. He got out.”

The world had stopped spinning or maybe was spinning too fast or maybe gravity had just disappeared entirely and Emma was dimly aware of Elsa mumbling quiet encouragements in her ear.

“He walked for you,” Neal added. “And now, well, it looks like he’s still walking, huh? Figures. He’s done that before.”

Elsa was still talking, waving one hand towards them as Will pushed through the crowd, mouth moving when he stopped in front of them and supported most of Emma’s weight when standing became a very distinct type of challenge.

Emma pulled her head up, staring at a still-smiling Neal and that wasn’t right. He shouldn’t know any of that.

No matter what he’d done in New Orleans.

Unless…

“I’ve got to go,” Emma said, head snapping between Will and Elsa. “I’ve got to go home. He went home. This is...something is wrong.”  
  
Will nodded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and they were halfway across the floor when the doors to the Theatre opened and the camera shutters sounded like an avalanche or a tsunami or something decidedly destructive.

And Robert Gold smiled when his eyes landed on Emma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not kidding when I said this version of Neal was the worst version of Neal I'd ever written. That being said, I'm complete and constant trash for Will and Emma working together. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and commenting. It means several worlds. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A start of the chapter note because this chapter is a little...not quite whump'y, but definitely getting there. There are a lot of answers in this chapter, but there is also a good amount of blood and punching. We're kind of time traveling again here - back to the end of the last Killian POV and then we'll circle back around to everything matching up again. 
> 
> As always thank you so much for clicking and commenting and being generally fantastic. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.

“Get up.”  
  
Killian laughed. And something in the back of his mind seemed to actually beg him to stop, but then another fist collided with his jaw and that made it a bit more difficult to keep taunting whoever kept hitting him.

They kept hitting him.

He’d lost track of how many times he’d felt knuckles slam into his face and he was fairly positive several different bones were broken, but he hadn’t been aware someone could break another human being’s cheekbone until it happened to him.

And it hurt like hell.

They’d moved at some point – or rather, Killian had been moved, punched and dragged and then punched again and the guy in front of him couldn’t seem to stop talking.

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, half a memory and a moment he couldn’t quite place, particularly not when he was trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his cheek and one of his eye was start to swell closed.

He tried to take a deep breath, recenter or something decidedly impossible when a foot actually struck his hip and he felt the cry fall out of him before he could even try and stop it.

“Shit, what the hell are you wearing steel-toed boots?” Killian asked, and there was blood trickling into the corner of his mouth.

The voice in the back of his mind roared back to life, sounding suspiciously like a mix of Locksley and Scarlet and, _fucking hell_ , Liam  – _stop talking, don’t antagonize him, get off the fucking ground_.

Killian blinked blearily, trying to figure out where they were and nearly slamming his head into the building behind him when he realized. They’d barely even moved.

“Seriously?” he asked, wincing when he tried to push up off the ground. Pieces of rock got stuck in his hand. “Are we just around the block? You didn’t even take me to some kind of lair or something? That’s almost disappointing.”  
  
The man in front of him didn’t look amused – and the voice, _voices_ , in the back of his mind might have actually sighed.

_He can’t help it, he just has to go and fuck everything up all the time._

_It’s almost like he enjoys getting punched in the face._

_He’s trying to get the upper hand._

Killian shook his head, hair sticking to his forehead despite the distinct chill that swept over the block and the alleyway just a few feet away from his apartment and the neighborhood had changed, gotten _better_ or something _The Times_ would probably describe as millennial, but there were still dark corners and no one was going to walk down an alleyway when they heard a fist slam into his jaw again.

Which it did.

As soon as he stood up.

Killian stumbled back again, trying to keep his feet underneath him and it didn’t really work, body falling into the wall behind him and breaths coming in short pants that only seemed to make it even more difficult to get oxygen to his lungs.   
  
Or his brain.

Which might have explained why he kept talking.

“Do you just spend all your time punching things?” he asked, rubbing his hand across his jaw and it was bruised and bloody and definitely broken.

Everything hurt.

“Shut up,” the guy said, and and the voice still sounded familiar. Killian just couldn’t figure out why.

His chest heaved, head hanging when he wrapped his arm around his middle and the guy moved again, but he wasn’t completely without his wits, bringing both arms up to shield his face and, that time, the punch didn’t land.

The guy laughed, seemingly impressed by Killian’s propensity to fight back, but he simply changed his approach, arm swinging in from a different angle and landing on cheekbones again. And, that time, Killian could actually feel his skin break underneath the hit, the blood on his face surprisingly warm like it was trying to remind him of something.

Like he was alive. Still.

“You’ve been asking way too many questions,” the vaguely familiar voice announced, words falling into rhythm with his punches and he shifted from Killian’s face to his stomach and that made breathing all but impossible.

“Jesus Christ, it’s like you’re reading from a script or something,” Killian mumbled. He couldn’t really talk, face bruised to hell and a mix of fresh blood and half-dried blood and, possibly, sweat and he was using the building for support more than anything else.

The guy chuckled, kicking again and he was definitely wearing steel-toed something because Killian wasn’t sure he’d felt pain like that shoot up his leg since he’d broken his goddamn foot and Liam sent Robin to look after him.

He wasn’t sure if he was the one laughing at the memory or if it was the voices in his head, but the guy in front of him looked almost stunned that he wasn’t following the unwritten rules of being beat up in an alleyway.  

“God, enough,” the guy snapped, leaning forward and grabbing a fistful of Killian’s jacket, shaking him like that would shake some actual, common sense into him.

_It’s not going to work,_ the voice said and that was definitely Liam. _He’s been bullheaded since he could formulate an opinion_.

“Easy for you to say,” Killian muttered, and the guy groaned when he realized he was actually talking to himself. Like a goddamn crazy person. Getting beat up in the alley down the block from his apartment. That he could only afford because his brother was dead.

Fucking hell.

“If you don’t stop talking, I am going to make sure you do,” the guy warned and Killian tasted blood on his tongue when he laughed again.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

* * *

_They came to the apartment._

_He’d been writing, no desk at The Daily News office because he wasn’t actually working for The Daily News, no matter what Regina told him. So he came back home, or what had always felt like home, toeing out of his shoes and kicking Scarlet’s sneakers out of the way when he walked towards the ratty couch they’d gotten off CraigsList when they were sophomores_

_It was some kind of miracle it hadn’t just fallen apart underneath them at some point._

_Killian shuddered to imagine what would happen if they ever actually moved. They’d have to buy a new couch._

_It was an easy story – feel good and optimistic and Regina had gotten Scarlet the freelance gig for photos and there was some talk it could get color if the quotes were good enough._

_The quotes were definitely good enough._

_He’d barely written a graph._

_And he knew. As soon as the knock landed on the piece of shit wood door that probably wasn’t even wood. He knew._

_He closed his laptop, running a hand through his hair and it felt like the world stopped collectively breathing for a moment, like the whole goddamn planet took a moment to mourn and Killian never knew how he actually took the four steps required to get to the wood door that probably wasn’t even wood._

_They were in uniform._

_Of course they were._

_That’s how it worked._

_“Can I help you?” Killian asked, and half of him wanted to run, to turn or just push out of the apartment, but the other half of him was frozen solid and couldn’t believe he’d just asked the most ridiculous question he could come up with._

_Of course they couldn’t help him. He already knew what they were going to say._

_“Mr. Jones,” one of the uniformed officers said, and he nodded dumbly. That was the first time he’d ever heard that._

_He didn’t really hear the rest of it._

_There were no real explanations – Killian dimly recalling that there couldn’t be, rules to follow and protocol to adhere to and he’d have to call someone and ask more questions if he wanted actual answers. They just told him it was an accident and someone threw out the word “hero” several times and Killian’s breath caught in his throat._

_Of course he was._

_What a fucking idiotic thing to say._

_Of course Liam was a hero. He should have been that and more, the goddamn leader of the free world or something that was worthy of everything he’d done and wouldn't get to do and Killian couldn't consider tenses when it felt like the world was falling apart at his feet._

_He just stood there. – trying to breathe and coming up decidedly short and there were more instructions and words and it had only happened the day before they said, barely giving Killian a chance to marvel at the ability of the United States Navy to expedite its news before they called Liam a hero again and some something that sounded like “with honor.”_

_One of the officers leaned forward, wrapping a hand around Killian’s shoulder and squeezing tightly and that probably wasn’t protocol._

_Killian wished he’d leave._

_“With honor,” he repeated, like that meant something at all and he was gone half a moment later, a blur of uniform and medals and the kind of responsibility Liam had always seemed bursting with._

_And Killian didn’t ask a single question._

_He didn’t open his mouth or close the door or do anything except stare blankly ahead and miss a deadline for the first time in his life._

_Regina called – demanding answers and explanations, but Killian didn’t move, didn’t turn towards the sound of his phone. He had no idea how long he stood there, breathing and waiting and hoping to wake up._

_He didn’t._

_He’d never fallen asleep._

_And he’d never asked another question._

_Will found him, still standing there with the door wide open and his knees practically begging him to sit down and it had gotten dark at some point. Killian hadn’t really noticed. His laptop had probably died._

_It was nearly as shitty as the couch was._

_“Hook,” Will said cautiously, moving towards him like he was approaching a wounded animal and it kind of felt like that._

_Or like they’d ripped out every single good thing about Killian Jones, thrown it out the window and then ran it over and claimed it was an accident._

_But with honor._

_“Killian,” Will corrected, and that got his attention. He blinked and it was like something snapped or a dam opened or some other metaphor that he would have been able to come up with if his mind had been working properly, but it wasn’t and it didn’t and his knees finally gave out._

_Will moved with him when he fell, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and muttering something in his ear and Killian still didn’t say anything._

_“I know, I know,” Will mumbled, holding on like maybe he was drowning just a bit too. “Locksley told me,” he explained when Killian’s head fell forward and he’d never really hyperventilated before, but that felt like the textbook definition. “Gina knows too already so it’s...just breathe, Killian.”_

_He didn’t, but that didn’t to stop Will, still muttering in his ear and squeezing his arm even tighter and, years later, Killian never knew how long they sat there._

_Hours._

_They must have sat there for hours._

_With the door wide open and only the sound of Killian’s haggard breath bouncing off the walls of the apartment._

_Robin called the Navy. Like that was a thing he could do, but he had connections and background knowledge of how to work the system or something that Killian didn’t actually listen to and Gina had to buy him actual eye drops because his body couldn’t seem to remember to ever blink._

_He just kept staring ahead. And he never opened his laptop. He didn't ask questions. Robin found out – a training exercise gone wrong and a mistake and, well, there went honor._

_They wanted him to give a eulogy. They wanted him to talk and there were more uniforms at the service, but there was no family and Regina talked instead._

_Killian sat there – in between Robin and Will and feeling more like a child than he had when he was a kid and he should have brought the eyedrops to the goddamn funeral._

_He didn’t cry._

_And he was vaguely aware that a therapist probably would have had a field day with that, the emotions he was repressing and the way he was shutting down, slowly, but surely, like his whole body was going through a check list._

_“You can stay,” Regina told him, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room with a pile of folded shirts next to her. She was folding his shirts. And he wasn’t going to stay._

_He couldn’t stay._

_Home had disappeared when he left the door opened._

_Killian shook his head, still not talking and still not asking questions and he didn’t even know where he was going to go. He didn’t know how to drive._

_Regina sighed, standing up and for half a moment he thought she was going to leave, but she didn’t – she took three steps forward and kicked her foot towards his ankle and dropped down in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on as tightly as she could._

_He cried then._

_He left anyway._

* * *

Killian groaned when he tried to move his eyes back up towards the guy still hitting him and it didn’t work. His right eye had completely swollen shut, the bruise underneath threatening to take over his decidedly broken cheek bone.

“You’re a shit fighter, you know,” the guy said, hauling Killian back up and pushing him against the building. “You’d think you’d do something about that.”  
  
“Why would I do that?”

“See, these are more questions and the point of this little visit was to ensure that you didn’t ask anymore questions.”  
  
Killian scoffed, hissing when a flash of pain shot through his arm and he still couldn’t stand up without the support of an entire building. “On orders from who, exactly? This Barrie guy? Never heard of him.”   
  
“You’re not supposed to.”   
  
Another punch and another exclamation of pain and there was just blood...everywhere. “That was almost menacing,” Killian laughed, wiping the back of his hand on chin. “You’re doing good on the whole villain script. It’s a little expected, but, you know, I get it. You’re just a lackey.”   
  
The guy gaped at him, probably stunned at Killian’s ability to banter while he was beaten to some kind of pulp, but that only lasted a few seconds before his fist landed on stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

“I’m not a lackey,” he hissed, and that voice sounded so absurdly familiar.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Killian muttered, licking his lips and he was never going to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. “Fine. You’re not a lackey. How come you’re here then? And who the hell is this Barrie guy?”  
_  
Shut up, shut up, shut up, _in-his-head Scarlet pleaded and in-his-head Locksley laughed and Killian had clearly lost his mind. In-his-head Liam stayed noticeably silent.

Maybe this was all a dream.

That would almost make more sense. He was, however, fairly certain a dream wouldn’t be trying to kill him in an alley.

His dream would, at least, be more creative.

And probably would have included other people.

Oh, shit. He reached up instinctively, looking for a chain and a ring he knew wasn’t there and he had to get up.

He had to get up and get downtown and crosstown and...she had to be ok.

He couldn't do this again.

He couldn’t lose her.

“Ah, did we strike a chord somewhere, Mr. Jones?” the guy asked, and Killian’s head smashed into the wall he was leaning again. The guy smiled. “Ah, yeah, see, not just some kind of lackey. I know all about you.”  
  
“Yeah? And what is there to know, exactly?”   
  
In-his-head Liam sighed, muttering something that sounded like _walk away, little brother_ and this had to be a dream because Liam would never say that.

He’d say something encouraging and supportive and so goddamn honorable it would make Killian roll his eyes.

_He’s worried_ , in-his-head Locksley added and in-his-head Scarlet cackled. _Please,_ he mumbled, _he’s terrified. He gave her Liam’s ring._

“Quite a lot, actually,” the guy continued, glancing down at his bruised knuckles with little more than a passing frustration. “How come you never enlisted? I’ve always wondered about that.”

Killian’s knees gave out, one leg stretched out in front of him when he sank onto the ground and he’d probably ripped the back of his jacket to shreds. He tried to swallow down the ball of _something_ in the back of his throat, just a bit desperate for any of the absolutely imagined voices in the back of his head to say something, anything, a few words of encouragement or assurance that this wasn’t a dream and Emma was fine.

“Not really my thing,” he mumbled.

The guy hummed, rocking back on his heels like this was a normal conversation and Killian wasn’t openly bleeding on the ground. There were still rocks stuck in his palm.

“Ah, of course, no honor amongst thieves, right?”

Killian lifted his eyebrows, the wall scraping against his skull when he lifted his head. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. It might be because you keep talking though. Were those part of your instructions, too? Just talk me...to death.”  
  
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Jones, you misunderstand. You’re not dying here. That wouldn’t really help anyone would it?”

“Was that a question?”  
  
“You talk a lot, you know.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian admitted, hoping if he kept talking he wouldn't punched again, but that felt a bit like wishful thinking. “How do you know about the Navy?”

The guy blinked, a flash of amusement on his face that disappeared into something resembling hatred and Killian realized he’d backed himself into a literal and metaphorical corner.

_Should have stopped talking at some point_ , in-his-head Scarlet muttered. And that time in-his-head Locksley laughed.

He’d gone insane.

“We know just about everything that’s ever happened to you,” the guy continued, and Killian’s teeth sunk into his lower lip, trying to stop himself from asking more questions and just managing to hurt himself instead.

The guy grinned, teeth flashing in the barely-there light from apartments and street lamps and the questionably loud voices in his head were right – Killian wasn’t worried about what happened in the next five minutes or the lingering effects of broken bones in his face.

He kept thinking about Emma.

And if _they_ , whatever the hell that meant, knew where he was and where he lived, then they knew more and they knew about her.

He stood back up.

“Yeah,” Killian challenged. “Like what?”  
  
“You’ve really got no sense of self worth at all, do you? You know this would be much easier if you’d just let me move from point to point.”   
  
“Keep talking then.”

“Keep trying to stay upright,” the guy laughed, fingers wrapped around his wrist like he was trying to massage it and Killian hoped it was broken. “Anyway, as I was saying, we know quite a bit about you. Have for years now. What would you say changed everything with her, then? When did you actually start to care?”  
  
It was like a siren went off in the back of his mind and all three voices seemed to stand up, pushing on different parts of his brain and he wasn’t really sure where his _pain center_ was, but it felt like they were standing on that too and Killian blinked when everything went red.

“Don’t,” he warned, well aware that he didn’t have much to back up any sort of threat. He couldn't really move, let alone try and inflict any sort of pain on some guy who still seemed far too familiar.

The guy was still smiling, shoulders moving when he laughed under his breath. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Jones. I don’t think we’re talking about the same woman. Although it’s interesting that your mind went to the new one. All things considered.”

“All things considered,” Killian repeated slowly, like he couldn’t process the words. He couldn't. He might have been concussed too.   
  
“Ah, you really don’t remember me, do you? That’s interesting, I thought you would. I can’t say I’m disappointed though, I suppose it just means I’m doing my job.” 

* * *

 

_She was quiet, nervous, eyes darting around the bar like she was waiting for someone to walk in and pull her out._

_Eventually he’d think that was why he walked over, but in the moment it wasn’t any of those things. It was the color of her eyes and the way she shook her hair off her shoulders, soft curls that fell halfway down her back and a tilt of her head that seemed to scream something._

_Killian wasn’t sure what, but he wanted to find out._

_So he walked over, feet carrying him towards an empty stool and there was already someone on her other side. He never really looked at him, just heard a few slurred words and breathed in the stench of alcohol and she said "no" more than once._

_Her shoulders dropped slightly._

_“I think the lady made it more than clear she’s not interested,” Killian said, and the guy gaped at him like he’d just suggested walking to the moon. She blinked. And rolled her shoulders._

_The guy laughed. “And I don’t remember inviting you over here,” he said, leaning back towards her and trying to push a glass in front of her. “C’mon, sweetheart, I bought it already. You can’t deny me that. That’s just rude.”_

_“I’m really not interested,” she said softly, gaze flitting back towards Killian and that was it._

_That was all it took._

_It felt like he’d landed._

_“That drink cost twelve bucks! You’re just not going to take it?”  
_ _  
_ _She huffed, exhaling sharply through her nose and pushed off the stool. She didn’t make it very far. He caught her around the wrist, spinning her back around and nodding towards the bar like he intended to cuff her to it and her shoulders shifted again._

_And Killian didn’t really think, didn't consider the repercussions or the fact that he didn’t even know her name yet._

_He just moved his arm and growled under his breath when he felt his knuckles land on bone and cartilage and punching someone in the face hurt like hell._

_“Holy shit,” he mumbled, and the guy was on the floor and she was staring at both of them, head snapping back and forth until Killian was certain he could actually hear it. He shook his hand, groaning when he noticed blood on his middle knuckle and people were shouting and yelling for security and she stood there, looking at him with straight shoulders and a certain set of her jaw that he’d probably spend the rest of his life remembering._

_“Killian Jones,” he said, holding his left hand out in front of him. The one that wasn’t bleeding. “At your service.”_

_She laughed – and the sound seemed to sink into him and through him and then back again, lighting corners he’d ignored and shut down until, suddenly, she was there and his arm nearly shook when she wrapped her fingers around his._

_“Milah,” she said softly._

_It went on from there, a different bar and alcohol she wanted and she’d just gotten to New Orleans a few days before._

_He’d been there two months, writing and filing, stories that didn’t mean anything and wouldn't impress anyone and she listened to every complaint, read every byline and promised there’d be something._

_He just had to keep writing._

_So he did. And the story seemed to just land in his lap – a run of the mill arrest by the water, but then there were bodies and ledes and connections and she listened to all of that too._

_He should have known._

_He should have realized._

_She kept listening and nodding and reading, every time he found something else, the stories starting to appear above the fold regularly and it was like he’d finally come up for air after years of fighting against the current._

_He was doing something – something good, something Liam would have been proud of._

_There were more arrests and more stories and the police were making headway, but it wasn’t perfect. It couldn't be perfect and some sad, disappointed part of him regularly pointed out that it probably wouldn’t ever be because he was him and he wasn’t exactly playing by the rules._

_There were bribes for information and covert meetings and anonymous sources and the police wanted him out._

_“There’s no room in this investigation for some hot-shot journalist looking to bolster his clips,” they told him and that was true.  
_ _  
_ _It didn’t change anything._

_Killian kept writing and he wasn’t surprised when the threats started to come – envelopes and messages and they got into his computer one night, his screen exploding with something that promised “he’d be next” and he didn’t listen._

_He just kept writing and Milah kept reading, but there was always something, just on the corner of her gaze, like she was waiting to be pulled away again and he didn’t notice._

_He left._

_He went to New York and he gave a best man speech and for half a moment he let himself forget that home had been ripped away from him, that he could have all of that again, and maybe did have all of that again, drinking downtown and holding onto Henry and Roland like lifelines in those metaphorical waves he liked to allude to._

_It was going to get better. He was going to do something important and he could walk away from the darkness and the goddamn metaphorical ocean._

_Of course it was a lie._

_It happened quickly – those types of things always seemed to happen quickly – t_ _he car ran the light and ignored the horns and the screams and she was still alive when he blinked open his eyes. He barely heard her when she spoke._

_“I love you,” she whispered, like that was just supposed to be enough or acceptable and it wasn’t either._

_“No, no, no, no,” Killian said, and he couldn't tell where the tears ended or just turned into blood, but he couldn't really breathe and he felt like he was being sliced in half._

 

_He couldn't feel his hand._

_And there were voices and promises and they moved him and Milah was dead, he knew she was dead before they even told him._

_It was his fault._

_They promised he was lucky, that he had plenty to be thankful for and losing his hand was nothing to losing his life, but the words seemed to hang over head, his brain refusing to ever actually acknowledge them._

_There was never an investigation. Nothing happened. No stories, no above-fold bylines or awards. He missed the ceremony anyway._

_There was just a police officer a week later, standing in the room and barely moving past the doorway, looking at Killian with something that felt like the opposite of pity._

_“It was an accident,” he said. “Nothing that could have been done and no reason to think otherwise. I suggest you do your best to get healthy again and then, maybe, take some time away from New Orleans. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Jones.”_ _  
_

* * *

“Holy shit,” Killian breathed, realization hitting him suddenly and without warning and it felt worse than any of the punches that had already landed.

The guy smiled.

“If you hadn’t been so worried about the comebacks all night, you probably would have gotten there sooner,” he said. “I’m surprised it didn’t click automatically. I guess you had some other things on your mind at the time. And you didn’t answer my question, you know.”  
  
“I was admittedly a bit distracted.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, you looked like you were reminiscing quite a bit. Trying to figure out where it all went wrong, then?”

Killian scoffed, trying to breathe and keep his legs straight and his fingers wrapped around his brace before he could stop himself. The guy – he had a name, fuck, what was his name? It started with an “F” or an “R” or something. He’d been wearing a name tag.

“Felix,” he offered, and Killian was definitely going to concuss himself if he kept jerking his head up like that. “My name is Felix. That’s what you were trying to figure out weren’t you?”  
  
Killian hummed a noncommittal sound he could barely hear over the noise of his own pulse, like his body was trying to remind him he was still alive again.

He didn’t really feel like it.

And the vaguely supportive, sure signs of insanity, voices were silent.

“But you were a cop,” Killian said, wincing when it hurt to shake his head. “You came to the room and told me it was an accident. There was nothing to investigate.”  
  
“And you were more than willing to accept it,” Felix grinned. “So ready to blame anyone that wasn’t you. Tell me something, Mr. Jones, did it help at all? Refusing to accept responsibility for any of it?”   
  
“It wasn’t my fault.”   
  
Felix sounded like he was choking, head thrown backwards and his whole body shook when he laughed. “Sure, it wasn’t. There were warnings, Mr. Jones. There were chances to stop, plenty of time for you to back out, to make sure nothing happened to her. You just didn’t listen. Far too proud, aren’t you?”   
  
He was.

And that might have been part of the problem. So desperate to prove _something_ to _someone_ and it was his fault.

“So I take it you’re not actually a cop then,” Killian ventured, but Felix shook his head, pursing his lips slightly like he was almost enjoying the conversation.

“I was very much a cop, but I was also very much a Lost Boy. And I was rising the ranks when you started writing. You drew a spotlight that had never been there before, investigations I’d been able to brush away as nothing without so much as a question. But then, suddenly, there were stories and updates and did you do a video series on the paper’s website?”  
  
Killian nodded. “I’ve got a good face for the camera.”   
  
“You’ve got a good face for the ground.”   
  
“That’s not even creative.”   
  
Felix rolled his eyes, but then his arm moved and Killian hissed when another punch landed and he was positive he heard his jaw crack.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, biting down on his tongue so he wouldn’t be tempted to keep talking or asking questions, but he couldn't seem to do either. “I thought you weren’t interested in killing me.”

“I'm not,” Felix shrugged. “Weren’t you listening? We tried that and it didn’t stick. The car wasn’t coming for her. It didn’t have anything to do with her, that was just a lucky shot.”  
  
The world went red again, an actual, siren going off somewhere and that almost seemed poetic when Killian lifted his arm and swung as hard as he possibly could. It wasn’t very hard – he still couldn't’ really stand up – but it landed, Felix stumbling back for half a moment and letting out a string of curses even Scarlet would appreciate.

He laughed when his tongue darted towards the corner of his lip, wiping away the blood there. “You’re a goddamn idiot, aren’t you?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Killian shrugged.

“Still didn’t answer my question, you know, when did everything change for you? We looked you up when you started writing, when you started becoming a problem, and you’d only just gotten to New Orleans. There was no reason for you to care. Except for her. So, tell me, Mr. Jones, when did you start to care and when did you stop? As soon as the car hit or as soon as they pulled the sheet over her head.”  
  
Killian inhaled slowly and he wasn’t sure his heart was still actually beating. Or, maybe, beating too quickly.

All he knew was that it hurt. Everything hurt.

God, what a melodramatic asshole.

His face was still bleeding.

“Or,” Felix continued, ducking into Killian’s eye line and smiling slowly enough that he swore he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. “As soon as you saw the new one. Just...forgot all about her, huh?”  
  
He didn’t say anything – couldn’t even remember a single word, let alone actually voice any of them, just tried to breathe and blink and, maybe, apologize.

In his head. To a ghost.

He was doing a shit job of breathing.

Felix laughed again, reaching out to tug on the front of Killian’s jacket and the material audibly ripped when it got hooked on part of the building. “So, here’s how it’s going to work,” he said. “You’re going to leave. You’re going to get out of New York and away from anything that even remotely looks like journalism and you’re going to fall back into your hole. You will stop writing. You’ll stop talking to police and you’ll stop trying to play hero.

That’s not really who are you, is it, Mr. Jones? She knew that in the end. At least, I think she did. I can’t imagine dying does much to help your critical thinking process.”

Killian tried to move, tried to lift his arm again, but a knee landed in his stomach before his nerve endings could fire or however that worked.

His lungs actually hadn’t suffered much in the accident – another medical marvel that doctors and nurses claimed he should be _thankful for_ – so he wasn’t really sure what it felt like to have one of them collapse, but it felt like that was what was going on and his vision was starting to swim just a bit.

“You’ve got two options, Mr. Jones,” Felix said, seemingly unconcerned by Killian’s flirtations with unconsciousness. “Either you get out of New York. Now. Tonight. Or you’re going to be responsible for someone else getting hurt. And you wouldn’t want that either.”  
  
He growled, lunging before he could really rationalize his emotions or his thoughts, but the siren  was absolutely in his mind now and he couldn’t think about anything except moving his right arm and ignoring the pain in his knuckles.

“If you even look at her, I will kill you,” he seethed.

Felix didn’t seem threatened by that either. He just lifted his leg again and pushed Killian away from him, snorting slightly like he was listening to a child throw a temper tantrum. “Please,” he balked. “You’ve got nothing. And we’ve got everything on her. Jail time makes it easy to control someone, don’t you think?”

“You’re desperate,” Killian accused, and maybe that was him and she had to be alright.

She was fine.

She went with Mary Margaret and David.

She was on the other side of the city and he wasn’t driving this car – metaphorical or otherwise.

“No,” Felix argued. “We’re winning. Still. And you’ve got nothing on Mr. Barrie. All you’ve got is a distinct lack of job and enough bodies trailing behind you that you look like the grand marshall of some kind of particularly morbid parade.”

He felt like he was standing on the edge of something...a cliff or a mountain or the beach, right where the tide met the sand and the waves were there and threatening and it all seemed to click, suddenly and, if he was being honest, just a bit aggressively.

Killian smiled.

“What could you possibly have to smile about?” Felix drawled, shaking his far too long hair out of his eyes and taking a step towards Killian. “You’re right back where you started in New Orleans. Asking too many questions and fucking up plans and threatening everything we worked for. Mr. Barrie can’t have that.”

_You figured it out, little brother_.

“Oh, you fucked up,” Killian said, the smile not hurting nearly as much as it probably should have and that probably had something to do with adrenaline and he should ask Mary Margaret about that.

“Your nose is broken.”  
  
“It didn’t have anything to do with Gold at all, did it? Did he even know? Was it even his idea?”   
  
Felix blanched, blinking quickly and his lips twitched slightly when he tried to swallow back his immediate retort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he muttered, but there wasn’t quite as much confidence in his words anymore.

“And you said I talked too much,” Killian said. “When did he decide it was too much? Before the final? Is it because he knows it’s all going to fall apart again?”  
  
“You keep using that word and I really don’t think you know what it means. We’re winning. The plan is fine. Everything is fine. You’re the one who’s about to lose everything. Again.”   
  
“Did he shut down the investigation himself? Or was that your idea? Couldn't control the police department anymore, so you offered up your services on that? Called her death an accident and not part of that plan you’re so certain is working.”   
  
Felix’s eyes narrowed and his lips all but disappeared, a thin line with a trickle of blood lingering in the corner. “It was suggested,” he whispered, voice barely making its way to Killian’s ears and it was some kind of miracle he even heard him. “Strongly.”   
  
“Ah, of course,” Killian nodded. “Desperate.”   
  
He moaned when a knee collided with his thigh at the same time a fist pushed under his jaw, knocking his head back again and he’d never been particularly athletic, but Killian was willing to bet fairly good odds that there shouldn't be spots in front of his eyes.

Shit, he’d lost his benefits plan when he quit.

He was going to make Regina pay for all his medical expenses.

“Shut the fuck up,” Felix hissed, kicking at Killian’s side when he slid back toward the ground, legs splayed awkwardly underneath him and he’d ripped the shoulder of his jacket too. “I am doing my job. And Mr. Barrie is going to be happy. And there’s nothing you can write that is going to change that.

This isn't going to change anything. You’re done. It’s over. And she’ll think you walked. She’ll think you ran away, so scared of the past and what it could do and she’ll hate you for it. You’ve lost the game, Mr. Jones.”  
  
He kicked again and Killian swore he felt _something_ snap, but that might have just been his consciousness and he was only dimly aware of Felix mumbling _get the fuck out of this city and leave Emma Swan alone_ before everything went dark again.

Killian wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke up, dim recollections of waking up in fits and drifting back off and he’d never actually gotten up. Every single inch of him hurt.

A lot.

It hurt a lot.

He winced when he sat up, muscles protesting the movement and he was still in the goddamn alley. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, gasping when a flash of pain shot through his arm and his shirt was stuck to him.

His eye was still swollen shut, sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead and he couldn't really move his jaw, the bones cracking and shifting when he tried to open his mouth and something sounded like it cracked – dried up blood.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, blinking the one eye that was still functioning and everything suddenly came into sharp focus.

And Neal Cassidy was the second in New Orleans.

It all made sense – almost _too_ much sense if he was being honest. Neal Cassidy, fresh off his complete failure at making any money running betting lines in Portland arrived in New Orleans without much to his name and found himself, for the first time in his life, arrested, trying to steal from Robert Gold.

And Robert Gold had seen...something, some possibility or _desperation_ and he could control Neal Cassidy. He could leave New Orleans in Neal Cassidy’s hands while he stayed in New York and kept an acceptable distance.

Enough that no one could ever pin anything on him.

And it worked.

It worked _well_ for years, Cassidy running the operation with ease and shadows across the city, a guy working every angle and ready for every possibility.

Except Killian – who didn’t listen to threats or warnings and kept writing above the fold.

His head was spinning. He might have been spinning. He was still sitting on the ground.

Killian twisted his arm, gritting his teeth and hissing in air and his phone was gone. “God fucking hell, shit, damnit,” he grumbled, pushing up the wall with his left hand and that was a mistake because the brace pushed into his wrist and, possibly, cut his arm up even more than it already was.

That seemed impossible.

“Shit,” he sighed, and breathing was still as much a challenge as it had been a few hours before. At least he thought it was a few hours.

He had no idea what time it was.

And no cab was going to take a guy with blood caked on his face anywhere.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Killian growled, vocabulary suddenly limited to curses and vaguely dramatic sighs and both of those things hurt too. He needed to get...somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t that alley.

He needed to confirm his goddamn theory.

There were no more voices – which, really, was probably a good thing – but he could have used a few words of encouragement or directions to the nearest payphone and Killian wasn’t even sure they still had pay phones in Manhattan.

He was, at least, standing up. That felt like some kind of a victory.

Killian took a cautious step towards the sidewalk, not sure where he was going or what he’d do when he got there, mind racing and none of his thoughts made much sense except _make sure Emma was ok_ , which just seemed to play on a loop in his head.

He tried to hail a cab six times and each one sped off, barely slowing down when they noticed that his shirt was ripped in half, but one stopped eventually, a vaguely terrified expression on the driver’s face when Killian slid into the backseat.

“Uh….” he started, shooting a furtive glance in the rearview mirror. “Where too, exactly?”  
  
“What time is it?” Killian asked sharply, and for half a moment he was certain the guy was going to actually yank him out of the car. That probably couldn’t have been very good for his broken nose. Or the stitches he probably needed on his right hand.

“Nearly eleven thirty.”

“Fuck,” he breathed again, and he’d never been kicked out of a cab in his life, but he’d never been beaten up in an alley either, so he supposed there was a first time for everything. “Honestly?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”   
  
“It’s been a very strange few hours.”   
  
The driver nodded slowly, eyes still staring at Killian’s reflection and his lip had opened up again. “You need me to take you to a hospital or something?”   
  
“No, no, no,” Killian muttered, trying not laugh at how quickly the man’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. They’d already be at the Theatre. They’d probably be in the middle of interviews. “Um...no, no, not the hospital. Can you, uh, West 86th and West End?”   
  
“What? Really?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded, dragging his thumb against the edge of his mouth and that didn’t help because his hand was still cut up too. “As quickly as possible.”   
  
It took – by Killian’s slightly manic count – six hundred and forty-three seconds to come to a stop in front of a different apartment building and he inexplicably still had his wallet, swiping a card and handing the driver a fistful of cash that he probably didn’t appreciate when the corners were streaked with blood.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, wincing when his knee popped as he tried to kick open the door and he didn’t actually know what apartment Ariel lived in. He hit every single button on the pad next to the door, more than once.

“What?” Ariel snapped when he held his thumb on a random apartment and hoped for the best.

“You’ve got to let me up, A,” Killian said, and he heard her gasp as clearly as if she was standing in front of him. “Like five minutes ago.”  
  
“Killian?”   
  
“Open the door, Ariel.”   
  
The lock clicked in front of him and he couldn’t really sprint up the stairs, but he did his best, panting by the time he reached the third floor. Ariel was standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face and she gasped even louder when saw him.

“Oh my God,” she yelled, rushing towards him and trying to pull his arm away from his side. “What happened? Is your nose broken?”  
  
“I need your phone,” Killian said, ignoring questions and he hissed when she pressed her fingers lightly against his cheek.

“Is there anywhere you aren’t bruised?”

“A phone, Ariel. Now.”

She bristled at the command, but didn’t argue – or push her fingers into any other bruises, which likely covered most of his body – just wrapped her arm around his middle and tried to help him into her apartment without collapsing under his weight.

“Sit,” Ariel said, nodding towards the couch a few feet away and she had a small arsenal of technology spread out on her coffee table. He did, mostly because he couldn’t come up with enough oxygen to put together words. “Here,” she muttered, holding her phone towards him and her eyes widened when he winced as soon as he moved. “What happened?”

Killian shook his head, thumb typing in a number he didn’t realize he’d actually memorized.

It went straight to voicemail.

_Hey, this is Emma. I’m obviously not here now, so leave a message and I’ll probably call you back. Probably._

His smile felt foreign and wrong, but it was there anyway, twisting bruised and broken muscles, like that was something muscles could do. Ariel stared at him.

“Swan,” Killian said, voice scratchy and it didn’t even sound like him. “Emma, love, I need you to call me. I know you’re...I know you’re busy and you’re...I need you to be busy and then when you’re not I need you to call this number. Call Ariel and just tell her that you’re ok and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you.”

He closed his eyes when he dropped the phone on the coffee table, barely avoiding a laptop and a pile of research and Ariel could have been a statue in her own living room.

“I have a theory,” Killian said, and Ariel’s eyebrows barely moved, but her mouth did, the ends quirking up into something that almost looked like interest.

“If you get blood on my couch, I’ll kill you.”  
  
“Yeah, that seems like a trend for the last few hours.”   
  
“You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be at the Theatre, making everyone believe things are still normal.”   
  
“I know,” he muttered, licking his suddenly dry lips and his eyes darted towards the phone like he expected Emma to call back that moment.

“They’re streaming,” Ariel said. She nodded towards another screen and any attempts at controlling the amount of oxygen he was getting to his lungs or other vital organs was forgotten as soon as he saw her smile and the lights reflecting off her hair and he slumped forward, elbows pressing into two different bruises when they landed on his thighs.

“And she’s looked that worried the entire time,” Ariel continued, finally moving out of the living room and towards a kitchen on the other side of the apartment. She came back with a knotted up towel and Killian nearly leapt off the couch when she pressed the ice against his eye.

“Oh my God, what a baby,” she mumbled, tapping on his hand so he’d hold up the ice himself. “She’s doing her best to look like she’s not worried,” Ariel added. “It’s definitely not working, but I don’t think anyone would notice unless they were looking for it. She doesn’t look nearly as shitty as you do.”  
  
“That’s rude, A,” Killian said. He didn’t move his eyes away from the screen, something in the very center of him seeming to settle when Emma started talking and she was fine. Nothing had happened.

They hadn’t done anything to her.

And some voice in the back of his head – that might have just been his own pessimism – muttered a quiet _yet_. They hadn’t done anything to her yet.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ariel whispered and her voice shook slightly.

“No,” Killian countered. “Not really. Just, uh, force fed some memories.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense at all. You’ve got to actually hold onto the ice if the swelling is going to go down. How did you get here? Did you walk here?”   
  
“I don’t think I could walk a full block if I tried, honestly. No, a very generous cabbie pitied me and I gave him a fifty dollar tip.”   
  
“Can you afford that?”   
  
“Ariel,” he growled, and she clicked her tongue in response. “I need you to look something up for me. Now. Right now.”   
  
She tilted her head in disbelief, waving her hand towards a small fleet of computers. “I’m kind of in the middle of something. And they’re going to start playing soon. The lines usually blow up right before the games start.”   
  
“This is more important.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“It is. Just...trust me on this.”   
  
Ariel didn’t blink, just stared at him intently like she was looking for the lie and she nodded when she didn’t find one. “What do you need me to do?”   
  
“When you found that Hans got Helm out of jail was there anyone else with him?” Ariel lowered her eyebrows, dropping onto the cushion next to him and taking over ice-holding duties. “Another person on the police record or...something?”   
  
“Something,” she repeated.

“Anything.”  
  
“What are you looking for? What happened after you left Granny’s last night?”   
  
“A name, Ariel.”   
  
“Which is?”   
  
“Barrie,” Killian said, and he knew the moment it _clicked_  her gasp sounding like the loudest thing he’d ever heard and she dropped the ice. “God, shit,” he hissed when it fell on another bruise, his jeans immediately soaking up the moisture. “Am I right?”

She nodded and it felt like the ice landed in the pit of his stomach. His eyes flitted back towards the screen and Emma was gone, Anna taking her place and talking a mile a minute and Killian couldn’t process the words over the roaring in his ears.

“I didn’t…” Ariel started. “I didn’t even think about it, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Shit, that’s not even a creative Peter Pan reference. He's calling himself Pan!”  
  
Killian shrugged. Or tried. He mostly just made a noise in the back of his throat. “Neal was in control of New Orleans. Makes sense he’d use a name that was in control of the whole universe or whatever. He wasn’t just the second, he was gunning for the whole goddamn operation. And David doesn’t think he knows that we know that he’s Pan. Shit, does that even make sense?” Ariel nodded, disappointment rolling off her in waves. “He was on the prison record?”   
  
“Yeah, I didn’t...we weren’t even thinking about Neal though, so I kind of ignored it and forgot about it.”   
  
“Fuck,” Killian mumbled, mind sprinting down those blocks he absolutely could not walk.

“Ok, ok, so Barrie...Neal, he was Gold’s right-hand guy? How did you figure it out?”  
  
“He sent some guy to jump me in the alleyway. I’m surprised he didn’t actually try and get this guy to challenge me to a duel.”   
  
Ariel jumped off the couch, ice forgotten and neither one of them had tried to move it off his leg. “What?” she yelled. “How...why aren’t you in a hospital?”   
  
“I needed to confirm my theory,” Killian said and Ariel gaped at him. “We’ve got to get downtown. Now.”   
  
“You can’t even move.”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
“Oh my God, do not even try to use that word right now,” Ariel sighed. “Tell me the truth. How did you figure it out?”   
  
Killian sighed, deflating slightly against the back of the couch, but he could almost see out of both his eyes. “The guy Cassidy sent,” he began. “He sent the wrong muscle. I’d met him before. In New Orleans.” Ariel gasped again, but he brushed her off and she mimed zipping her lips closed. “He was a police officer. He...he made sure no one investigated the accident or why Milah died.”   
  
“And now?”   
  
“Now he wants me to get out of New York. Because I wouldn’t write about Emma.”   
  
“Holy shit,” she whispered, and Killian couldn’t argue that. “What are you going to do?”   
  
“I’m hoping I won’t bleed out on the way to the Playstation Theatre.”   
  
Ariel nodded, like bleeding out was an actual option. Breaking another bone seemed more likely. It felt like his leg was trying to snap itself in half. “David might actually kill him. But I’ve got, at least, a million questions. How did Neal get back to Gold and out of New Orleans and why the betting thing? If he was some kind of crime boss wannabe, running lines and bashing Emma on a Twitch stream is…”   
  
“Insane?” Killian finished, and Ariel nodded again. He licked his lips, sighing almost easily when he stood up and the room moved with him. “Yeah, that should be our subhead at this point. Ok, if I lean on you are you actually going to collapse under me?”   
  
“Ass, that only happened because I wasn’t prepared for you to show up bruised and battered in my hallway.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s fair.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they, somehow, made it to the curb and in a cab and Killian held his hand out for the phone as soon as they made their way into traffic. Straight to voicemail again.

He called four more times and he told Emma he loved her every single time.


	32. Chapter 32

Primary fire. Secondary fire. Attack. Attack. _Attack_.

Or, more accurately, primary fire, secondary fire, stand there like a goddamn idiot. Emma was fairly positive her entire health bar had just...evaporated.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she mumbled, and Will stared at her like she’d lost her mind. She absolutely had. Emma shook her head, pulling in a ragged breath and she didn’t actually remember grabbing Will’s hand, but she squeezed it, tightly, like she was making sure he was still there.

He squeezed back.

“Come on, Em,” Will muttered, tapping his thumb on her palm and trying to pull her towards the doors. She nodded slowly, but her feet didn’t seem to get the memo or the instructions from her brain because she didn’t actually take a step forward and she almost wasn’t surprised when she felt her mouth open.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asked, glaring at Gold and he smiled in response. God, he was wearing another suit. It had a pocket square.

“I’m here to see my team, Ms. Swan,” he drawled, and the sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine. Will squeezed her hand again. “And shouldn’t you be playing?” He nodded towards the screen and the tables and the headset that she hadn’t even touched. “I believe we have a game to play.”  
  
“We?”   
  
“Don’t we?”   
  
“No,” Emma said sharply. _Primary fire. Shoot. Shoot. Attack. Get the fuck out of the Theatre_.

She still didn’t move.

“No?” Gold repeated, and the smile seemed to almost get _slimier_ like that was something that smiles could do and Emma tried not to actually shiver. It didn’t work.

They were playing that stupid Fall Out Boy song again and this was supposed to be on TV – likely bumping Saturday morning bowling on ESPN 47 or whatever channel they were going to broadcast on and she didn’t care about any of that.

She just wanted some straight answers. She wanted to know where Killian was.

Emma shook her head again and Will mumbled something that she couldn't quite understand, the rushing in her ears making it difficult to stand upright, let alone actually try and hear things. She had no idea where David was, but she could, somehow feel him staring at the back of her head, his near-desperate pleas to _stop fucking this up_ practically echoing in her head, but that was hard to hear too and Robert Gold was still smiling at her.

And none of them had moved a single inch.

She was never going to be able to listen to Fall Out Boy again.

“No,” Emma snapped, half shouting the word and Gold’s smile flickered with something that might have been amusement. “I am done playing. This is...this is insane, you know that, right? You are absolutely, clinically insane.”  
  
“Emma,” Will warned, but she couldn’t seem to stop talking and David was probably having an actual conniption on the second floor.   
  
Gold rested both his hands on the top of his cane, head tilted like he was watching a child and only just maintaining his patience. “Go on,” he said, and it felt like a command.

Emma inhaled sharply, the ice that had been sitting at the bottom of her spine melting into something that felt a hell of a lot like fury and she tried to grow several inches when she stood up straighter, pressing her heels into the ground.

“Did you think this would work?” she asked. “Listening to Neal and agreeing to the lines and what...trying to infiltrate this whole word? Why even try to do that?”  
  
Gold’s eyes flashed – a look Emma couldn’t quite name passing over his face, but it looked like a mix between interest and amusement and his laugh snuffed out any of that _fury_ she’d felt before.

She’d sustained severe damage, not able to get to the Mercy in time and she was...dead. Metaphorically. Or whatever.

She’d stopped playing the game.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re insinuating, Ms. Swan,” Gold said softly, pausing between each word and Emma wasn’t sure who squeezed the other’s hand harder, her or Will. “And I’m not sure that I appreciate it very much.”  
  
“Then that leads me to believe you understand it.”   
  
He laughed again, gaze flitting towards the screen and the table when the announcers started introducing teams and players and she needed to move. “Ah, that I almost understand,” Gold chuckled, leaning towards Emma until he was in her space and she tried to keep her breath from catching in her throat.

That didn’t work either.

“You’re talking in circles,” Emma accused, shaking her hair off her shoulders and her lips had gone dry. “Why are you here? What could you possibly hope to gain from any of this? Don’t you have it all already?”  
  
Gold lifted his eyebrows, mouth twisted slightly. “Me?” he asked, and his shoulders shook slightly when he laughed under his breath. “No, Ms. Swan, you’re woefully misinformed. This isn’t about what I want. This about restoring the status quo.”   
  
“Had it ever shifted?”

“Oh my God, Emma,” Will mumbled, but she brushed him off, pulling her hand away from his.

Gold’s smile didn’t waver – if anything it got more pronounced and the music was louder or maybe Emma was just hearing it better and it felt she’d struck a nerve. She hoped she’d struck a nerve.

She hoped she hadn’t just fucked everything up.

“It was, my dear,” Gold continued, hardly paying a moment to Will or the string of curse words he whispered under his breath. “I’m sure you know why. Or, well, you think you know why. But as I said, you’re woefully misinformed. The story you think you understand so well, you’re only getting bits and pieces and none of them add up, do they?”  
  
There were warning bells going off in every corner of her mind – falling into rhythm with that goddamn, fucking Fall Out Boy song and she wasn’t quite sure how her knees were still operating or supporting any of her weight.

Emma glanced over her shoulder before she could stop herself, Neal sitting at the table with one leg pulled up onto the edge of his chair and there was a small crowd around him. Jefferson was nowhere to be seen.

“Yes they do,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound truthful, even to her own ears and Will might have started swearing in different languages. “It’s all you. And you’ve pulled Neal into it and Jeff and...this was just supposed to be video games. We are playing video games!”  
  
“I thought you weren’t playing the game anymore, Ms. Swan,” Gold challenged softly, and Emma resisted the urge to scream.

Or stomp her foot.

Or punch fucking Robert Gold in his goddamn, fucking face.

“I’m not,” she sneered. “We’re done. This isn’t going to work.”  
  
Gold shook his head, lips pursed and eyes narrowed and Emma wished her body could decide on a temperature and just stick with it because bouncing between blazing hot and freezing cold was starting to make her vision swim just a bit.

“Unfortunately incorrect again,” he said, and his voice sounded like poison and acid and something absolutely destructive. “Tell me something, Ms. Swan are you under the impression that anyone was coerced into this? That I’m what...forcing people to do my bidding? I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”  
  
Emma swallowed, tugging her lips behind her teeth and she was going to bruise her heels if she dug them into the backs of her shoes anymore. “What are you dancing around?”

“There’s no dancing, Ms. Swan. There’s not even a tune in the background. There is simply you and what you think you understand and what you absolutely do not know.”  
  
“So then tell me.”   
  
“And why would I do that? Need I remind you that you’re not part of my team? You could have been, there were several invitations and several...frustrating moments when you refused us, but that was your choice.”   
  
“What?” Emma blinked, and Gold widened his eyes, rocking back slightly like he was appraising her. “You said us _._  Who’s the _us_ in this situation.”   
  
“Please, you can’t possibly be that dense.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
He chuckled and Will had tugged his phone out at some point, fingers flying across the screen with his eyebrows pinched and Emma barely glanced at him before she stared at Gold, her heart hammering in her chest.

And she nearly stumbled backwards again when she realized – like it hit her in the head or, finally, took out her knees and oxygen was, suddenly, very difficult to come by in midtown Manhattan.

None of this was new. None of this was different. And all of it made sense.

Neal wasn’t just randomly in New Orleans. He was working for Gold and with Gold and under Gold and he’d _fucked it all up_.

He was the mistake.

He was the reason New Orleans didn't work. Killian had written about Neal. Without realizing. 

And she had so many questions, she was fairly certain she’d explode with them. She needed to find her phone. She needed to find Killian.

She needed to figure out how Neal had gotten back into some kind of inner-circle of crime and drugs and goddamn video games.

“Did you get there?” Gold asked softly, but with a hint of something almost sounded like he was impressed.

Emma must have nodded because she could dimly feel her hair move across the back of her neck and Gold hummed in appreciation, the smile on his face settling into victory. Her stomach clenched, every single muscle in her body contracting at the same time, pinching and twisting and her tongue suddenly felt far too big for her mouth.

“There’s nothing you can do, Ms. Swan,” Gold continued, taking a step toward her and she did back up at that, chest heaving when Will’s hand found the small of her back. “As I say, I almost understand why he was so intent on getting you to turn coat, but you’re awfully stubborn aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” Emma said immediately. “And I think you’re the one woefully misinformed if you think there’s not anything anyone can do. The police do exist, you know.”   
  
Gold nodded, rocking his head slightly like he was contemplating the presence of the police in major metropolitan areas. “True,” he admitted. “But you don’t have much to back up what you’re insinuating and, of course, people do have a habit of getting hurt when the police are involved, don’t they?”   
  
Her stomach unclenched long enough to leap into her throat and her lower lip still hadn’t recovered from her previous assault, hissing in pain when her teeth pressed against an open cut. Gold lifted his eyebrows.

“Why trust him?” Emma pressed, certain she was pressing her luck as well. “You were...your precious status quo was ruined wasn’t it? With the stories and the coverage and you must have lost nearly everything, but they couldn't pin anything on you, right? That’s why you’re still here.”  
  
Gold didn’t say anything and Emma’s heart was, apparently, trying to work its way out of her body, possibly bruising every single one of her ribs on its way out. And that hit her quickly too. She wished it would stop doing that.

“Oh,” Emma breathed. “You’re willing to use him as a fall guy, aren’t you? You play with people like cheese pieces and they think they’ve got an ounce of control and you sit in some kind of ivory tower and just rake in cash, huh?”  
  
Gold blinked.

And Emma nodded once.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she hissed, knowing full well she couldn’t actually back up the threat, but she was tired and stubborn and she had no idea she’d dropped her phone. Her pulse was never going to return to a medically acceptable level.

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision.”  
  
“You never answered my question. Why here? Why bring it to New York? It’s an awfully big risk.”   
  
It was like a completely different person appeared in front of her – the knowing look that had been practically carved on Gold’s face just a few moments ago disappearing as soon as Emma closed her mouth, replaced, instead, with something that was far closer to terrifying than she was willing to admit.

His eyes seemed to actually darken the longer she stared at him and his lips all but disappeared, a thin line of skin that made him look just a bit reptilian when he pressed them together tightly. He tilted his head slowly, eyes grazing across her whole body and Emma tried not to shudder, Will’s hand still pressed firmly against her back.

“He doesn’t know,” Will whispered, and Emma wasn’t sure how she heard it over a fucking _different_ Fall Out Boy song.

She nodded.

“Holy shit,” Emma muttered. She leaned back, letting Will support most of her weight and that was probably for the best because her knees had mostly given up, glorified joints and pieces of cartilage that weren’t doing anything for her ability to stay upright.

Gold still hadn’t moved, barely even breathing and he could have been carved out of marble, staring over Emma’s shoulder at the table on the other side of the Theatre.

“Not quite in control as you think you are, huh?” Emma asked, ignoring Will’s quiet reprimand when she refused to shut the hell up. “Where’s Killian?”

That got Gold to move.  

“What?” he asked, voice low and one word had never sounded more like a threat. Neal was still sitting at the table, the crowd growing and they were running behind schedule. The rest of Second Star was...somewhere, not at the table and certainly not with Gold and Emma wondered what David was waiting for.

“Killian,” Emma repeated, taking a step back into Gold’s space and the _fury_ was back, sitting red hot in the pit of her stomach and the back of her mind.

She was going to get some goddamn answers.

“Why isn’t he here?” she continued. “Where is he?”  
  
Gold shrugged, an actual shrug and if it wouldn't have sounded absolutely insane, Emma probably would have laughed, the move so out of place on his shoulders that she was fairly certain she’d fallen into some kind of alternate universe.

Will, however, did not seem predisposed to self preservation – his laugh practically echoing off the walls of the Theatre as he slung his arm over Emma’s shoulders in a move that was as combative as it was comforting.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, not even bothering to look up, certain he was smiling and not actually sure she could handle that.

“He doesn’t know that either,” Will said as if he were breaking news or headlines. “Are you sure you’re really the great, big crime boss we’ve all thought you were?”  
  
Gold’s lips twitched and that was just as threatening as anything he could have said. Will stopped laughing. “I don’t care where your journalist is, Ms. Swan,” he muttered. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s backed himself into a corner he can’t find his way out of. It’s a wonder he’s even still in the city.”   
  
“And you think that’s just enough?” Emma asked. God, she wished she could stop talking.

She wished David would do his job and arrest...someone.

She didn’t really care who.

“Wouldn’t it be?” Gold challenged. “I’m not sure what assumptions you have, Ms. Swan, but he’s not the honorable man you seem to think he is. I was, however, almost surprised that he was so, well, let’s just say...dedicated to you. He does, after all, have a habit of running away.”

He was trying to goad her into something – to doubt or not believe and, a few months ago, maybe, it would have worked.

It didn’t.

Emma glanced at Will, a knowing look on his face and his arm still wrapped around her shoulders when his eye flitted towards the ring around her neck and she was drowning in symbolism and metaphors and she’d heard enough.

“Get out of the way,” she hissed, taking another step forward and trying to brush past Gold.

That didn’t work either.

He stepped in front of her again and there were footsteps behind her and a goddam video game announcer calling her name.

“I’m afraid there’s still a game to play, Ms. Swan,” Gold muttered, nodding back over her shoulder and she nearly dislocated her whole neck when she snapped around. Neal smiled at her.

And Jefferson still wasn’t anywhere near the table or the headsets or the video game announcer.

“You’ve got a contract, Em,” Neal said. “And we’ve already drawn attack. You think you can defend on that map?”

Emma knew she was still breathing, could feel the pull through her nose and into her lungs and she could feel her shoulders moving, but she wasn’t really getting anything out of it, the oxygen failing to do its job or keep the room from spinning when Neal took a step towards her and wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“He’s not coming, Em,” he whispered, and her whole body went cold.

She shook her head, yanking her arm back to her side. “What do you think you know? You’re hoarding information so much you’re practically bursting with it, Neal. He wouldn’t just walk. Not...he wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“You’re so sure.”   
  
“You are pulling at straws,” Emma accused. “And playing on your own, aren’t you?”   
  
Neal blanched and Will chuckled lightly, pressing his tongue to the corner of his mouth when Emma glanced his direction. “If he doesn’t just ask you to marry him as soon as he sees you, he’s crazy,” Will muttered.

“You don’t know anything,” Neal muttered, but his eyes flickered towards Gold, still as a statue again and just as terrifying, a quiet rage that seemed to make its way across every inch of the Theatre. “And, trust me, he’s not going to be here.”  
  
Emma’s head snapped back towards Will, any sense of joking gone as soon as his eyes widened and his phone was out again, thumb threatening to pound into the screen.

Neal chuckled. And Emma’s pulse had moved away from her heart, just behind her eyes, beating out a rhythm she couldn't quite keep up with.

She bit back her immediate response – the promises that it was over or wouldn’t work or that there was a small fleet of police officers stationed at strategic corners throughout the Theatre – and that was some kind of actual miracle.

They had to play the game.

It had to look normal.

They had to catch them in the act.

Or something. She didn’t know the exact terminology. She’d been too focused on flirting with her boyfriend the night before to pay attention to the specifics of the plan.

Her hand wrapped around the back of her neck, thumb brushing across the chain as she pushed it into her skin, like she was trying to remind herself it was there and nothing was going to happen.

And a tiny, pessimistic, _certain_ voice in the back corner of her mound shouted that it already had.

“Em,” Ruby snapped, appearing out of nowhere and looking murderous as soon as her eyes landed on Neal. “Time to play.”  
  
“I’d listen to her,” Neal added softly and Ruby actually growled, Will fisting his right hand next to him like he was actually going to haul off and hit someone. “Contracts and lawsuits and all those make very interesting headlines, don’t they?”   
  
She’d never actually understood the expression _shaking with anger_ until that very moment, her arms moving without her actual permission and she was barely breathing in before she was breathing out again, quick pants that just seemed to entertain Neal.

“How’d you slink back, Neal?” Emma asked. “How’d you get him to trust you again when you fucked everything up?”

He, somehow, managed to get even paler and Emma wished people would stop having silent conversations above her head or she was going to slap someone again. Neal. She was going to slap Neal.

Or, possibly, just knee him straight in the groin.

“Play the game, Em,” he said, and it sounded like a warning. She was a stubborn idiot. “Or next time, I’ll make sure nothing misses.”  
  
She didn’t have a clue what that meant, but then she heard Will’s quiet hiss next to her and he’d dropped his phone. “Fucking hell,” he breathed. “Hook was right. The whole goddamn time. Hook was right.”   
  
Ruby shifted slightly, taking half a step towards Emma when Neal glared at her – flanking her like he could actually do something in the middle of the Playstation Theatre with an announcer practically _begging_ for them to get to their seats.

“You don’t know what you're talking about,” Neal muttered, but he didn’t sound nearly as confident as he had before. Will shook his head moving towards Emma as well and she could barely see anything between his and Ruby’s shoulders.

“Emma, we’ve got got get out of here,” Will continued, voice cracking slightly and she’d never heard him sound that...terrified. He couldn't seem to focus on her, eyes a million miles away and Emma twisted, turning on him and pressing up on her toes so she could grip his shoulders.

“What are you talking about?” Emma asked. The voices in the Theatre were getting louder and even more muddled, mixing in with the music and Will’s pained breathing and Ruby trying to pull Emma towards the table with promises that it would be _fine_ on her lips.

There was a plan.

There was a schedule.

And Killian wasn’t there.

Something had happened.

And it felt like a goddamn tsunami, the latest rush of realization and understanding washing over Emma and threatening to drown her right there a few feet of a door that opened again.

“No,” Emma said softly, not entirely sure what she was arguing, but desperate to prove herself wrong. “No that’s…”

She shook her head again and Will still couldn’t – or wouldn’t – meet her gaze, eyes just on the wrong side of glossy and Ruby’s eyes kept darting from person to person, mouth hanging open slightly as she tried to put the pieces together to a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

They were two different puzzles.

Emma wasn’t even sure if that metaphor made sense, but her mind was off and running before she could consider something better, turning back towards Will with something that tasted a bit like desperation lingering in the back of her throat.

“It’s…” she started, but Will laughed sardonically and she snapped her jaw shut.

“Don’t even try and say fine right now. I’ll give some kind of shit best man speech if you try and tell me that everything is fine right now.”  
  
She couldn't rationalize any of the feelings coursing through her brain or her veins or _whatever_ and half of her just wanted to laugh, while the rest of her wanted to cry and another part really wanted to get punch something.

_Primary fire. Primary fire. Primary fire_.

“I need a phone,” Emma announced, ignoring whatever it was Neal was saying behind her, muttered promises or assurances to someone and Gold still hadn’t moved. He was staring at Neal – who didn’t look back.

There were more footsteps and another voice Emma didn’t recognize, but she didn’t turn around, just ducked down to grab Will’s phone and he hadn’t been lying. He’d called fifteen times. And left another fifteen text messages.

And Killian’s phone went straight to voicemail. Again.

“God damn,” Emma grumbled, shooting a furtive glance Will’s direction. He nodded back at the door and Ruby was on _her_ phone, something that sounded like _yeah, yeah, right in front of the Theatre, send it here_.

“C’mon,” Will said. He held out a hand, but Emma barely lifted her foot off the ground, before she was being tugged back and Neal had a fistful of team-branded shirt in his hand.

There was a guy next to him – sandy colored hair and bags under his eyes that would have been bordering on impressive if Emma wasn’t sure the world was ending, and a bruise on his jaw that seemed to be visibly swelling the longer he stood there.

His knuckles were bloody.

“There’s nowhere for you to go, Emma,” Neal said softly, but the intensity and the confidence had returned and it felt like her heart actually stopped for a moment. “You’re stuck, right here, playing this game and losing this game. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”  
  
“Shut up,” Emma argued. She held onto Will’s phone tightly, trying to will her heart to beat normally or consistently and it didn’t listen.

That was frustrating.

Neal chuckled, leaning forward and she flinched when his hand brushed across the back of her palm. “You’re a perfect fall. Again. It’s what you’re good for, Em. You didn’t want us and now you’ve got to make amends for that. You and your journalist. And you’re going to be nothing by the end of it all.”  
  
He smiled like he’d won – a different game than the original game and a wholly different puzzle, ancient insecurities and fears that lingered in the back of Emma’s mind and he was playing her as much as he was playing Gold and the League and probably the guy with the bloody knuckles next to him.

Ruby moved again, a snarl on her lips and Will shifted back in front of Emma, but she mumbled _no, no, wait a second_ under her breath and they both glanced back at her, matching looks of quiet pride on their faces.

“You’re an idiot, you know that,” Emma muttered. “An absolute goddamn, fucking idiot. And I’m not nothing. I was _never_ nothing. But that was the only way you could ever be anything, wasn’t it? You couldn’t do any of this...unless I wasn’t there.”

She shook her head slowly, the laugh that bubbled out of her out of place and awkward and it might have been the purest sound she’d ever made. “God, you’re an asshole,” she mumbled, and Neal’s eyes widened. Emma nodded backwards, not even turning to look at a somehow still there Robert Gold. “Does he know? That you put out hits without telling him? Didn't quite go according to plan, did it?”

Neal didn’t answer – and that was an answer. “He doesn’t, does it?” Emma continued, voice rising with every single letter. Neal looked almost translucent. “Were you that desperate?”  
  
“I think that’s a yes,” Will muttered. “They should build Hook some kind of journalism statue.”

“Where is he?” Emma demanded only to be met with more silence. Except the guy with the bloody knuckles.

He laughed.

Neal’s head snapped back, eyes barely more than slits and the guy clamped his mouth closed, but the damage was already done and Emma was moving before she realized she’d taken a step. She pushed on Neal’s shoulder, appreciating his soft exhale as even _more_ footsteps moved towards them and there was probably a camera on them.

They were drawing a crowd.

And Zelena.

“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded, hair whipping across her face when her head twisted, trying to look at all of them once. “We are on a schedule. A very tight, very exact schedule, so if any of you would like to make any goddamn money, you might want to follow it.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Emma said easily, eyes never leaving Neal. He was still staring at the guy next to him who, at some point, had started muttering quiet apologies.

Only he wasn’t talking to Neal.

He called him Mr. Barrie.

“No way,” Will breathed, and even Ruby seemed to stumble on her own surprise, staring at Emma with wide eyes.

She wished she could come up with something more articulate than _holy shit_ , but that was, apparently, impossible – particularly when the Earth had fallen off its axis.

“Like Peter Pan,” Emma muttered. Neal stiffened. “Holy shit, like Peter Pan. Where is he, Neal? What did you do?”

“What we should have done years ago,” bloody knuckles guy sneered, and Emma’s blood ran cold, a flash of emotion settling at the base of spine and threatening to pull her under the ground. “You can’t do anything about it now.”  
  
“God, shut the hell up, Felix,” Neal growled.

He hadn’t known. He didn’t realize they knew he was Pan. He had no idea.

And Gold had lost control of his own crime empire.

“What did you do?” Emma repeated, the question nearly exploding out of her and she felt like she’d reached her limit. She was balancing on something...a knife or the edge of the world and one misstep would send her careening into something that would probably cut her up and leave her as bruised and bloodied as that guy’s knuckles.

Neal’s eyes flashed – a mix of trepidation and _unhinged_ and maybe Emma wasn’t the only one stumbling towards a breaking point.

“Do you know what I lost?” he asked softly. “Do you know what I was doing? What I could have had? Everything. I could have had everything. Control and money and power. I could have settled, Em. Wasn’t that always the deal? We get somewhere, get out of Portland and get enough and we stop running. I had it. It was half a breath away, the entire goddamn city in the palm of my hand and then all of a sudden who shows up and starts unearthing secrets and information? Your journalist. Of course, he wasn’t yours then, was he?”  
  
Emma bit her lip – determined not to give into the bait and Ruby reached forward to lace their fingers together. Neal chuckled softly.

“He wasn’t playing by the rules, Em,” Neal continued, voice picking up until the words started to slur together. “He kept getting information and sources and I couldn’t have that. We couldn't have that.”

His eyes darted towards Gold and for half a moment Emma had forgotten he was standing there. One side of his mouth twitched when she looked at him. “Status quo, Ms. Swan,” he whispered, and even Zelena flinched slightly. “Mr. Cassidy made a mistake, but maintained the status quo. Did that answer your question from before?”

Control. It was about control. From the very beginning.

Emma nodded, blinking quickly like that would push the worry away or stop her from actually dissolving and maybe that would be easier – just melt and sink into the floor and there’d be no crime lords or stories or games.

“No,” she muttered, answering her own question. “No, fuck your status quo. Fuck your precious control and your plan. Tell me what you did!”  
  
“Accidents,” Neal said simply. “Sometimes have a tendency to happen.”   
  
It was like something cracked – possibly her sanity – and Emma wasn’t sure who actually moved first, her or Will or even Ruby, who might have actually tried to take Neal out by the ankles.

Emma could feel the tears on her cheeks, the _feelings_ she’d been so determined to avoid from the very beginning obvious as soon as she blinked again and she hissed when she felt her knuckles land on something that might have been a collarbone and she was yelling and there was scuffling and more footsteps and the goddamn announcer was still trying to get them to play a game.

Ruby tried to hold onto Emma, one arm around her waist while the other one tried to land a blow to the side of Neal’s head and none of it worked – Neal still smiling and status quo maintained and Gold didn’t move a single inch.

“No, no,” Emma sputtered. “That’s...no.”  
  
She couldn’t even finish her threat, if that’s what it was. It felt more like a plea and hope and none of those things belonged in Emma Swan’s vocabulary.

Zelena was saying something to Gold – and something in the back of Emma’s brain sparked at that, like, she was missing something there as well and she didn’t care. She needed to find David.

He found her.

Figured.

“Em,” he shouted, and _shit_ he’d drawn his fucking gun and she’d never even stopped to ask _how_ they were managing to stage a raid in the middle of the Theatre. Zelena took a step away from Gold. “Emma, are you ok?” David continued, sharper that time, but he didn’t wait for an answer as he hooked his arm behind Neal, twisting him around and smiling like he’d won Olympic gold. “Oh, I’ve waited for this.”   
  
“What is going on right now?” Ruby asked.

“Rubes, are you honestly asking questions right now?” David asked, the telltale sound of handcuffs clicking a few feet away.

Around Neal’s wrists.

And Gold’s – Lance behind him with his own knowing smile as he mumbled to Zelena something Emma couldn’t understand. She kept finding something new to look at, officers standing next to the entire Second Star roster and more police running through the front doors and the back doors and Jefferson was standing a few feet away, his arms twisted behind his back as he flashed a supportive smile Emma’s direction.

She didn’t understand that either.

It didn’t matter when she heard her name yelled again – a desperate sound that barely made it to her ears before she spun on the spot and the minimal amount of air she’d managed to get into her lungs rushed out of her in one, quick huff.

“Swan,” Killian breathed, and she closed her eyes, trying to burn the sound into her memory or the very center of her or something equally as absurd as closing her eyes when he was standing a few inches away from her.

She ran.

She actually ran, weaving through TV cameras and media coverage and more goddamn police officers and he came back.

_He came back_.

Emma crashed against him, stumbling slightly when he couldn’t quite support her weight and she felt him exhale against her, but she barely even considered any of the reasons for that before she was on her toes and he kissed her back.

She rocked against him, left hand pushing into his hair and right arm wrapped around his neck like she was trying to make sure he was there or didn’t disappear and she sighed softly when she felt a hand on her back, palm pressed flat across her team-branded t-shirt.

He pushed back, body flush against hers and Emma barely kept her balance when his tongue traced against her lip. She could feel him everywhere, the press of his hand working its way through her like some kind of emotional brand and she’d obviously lost her mind, but she finally felt like she was breathing again and, maybe that was more important.

They couldn't see to actually stop kissing – pulling away only to move back towards each other like there were magnets there and Killian mumbled something against her mouth, fingers tracing up her spine and towards her neck and his left arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

It was a testament to _everything_ that she hadn’t actually noticed his face before she just started kissing it, only stopping when she moved to his jaw and Killian hissed, squeezing his eyes closed when his hand tightened slightly around her neck.

“What?” Emma asked, leaning back and he didn’t actually move his arm away from her waist. That felt important.

In the middle of an active crime scene.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and her voice caught on the words. Killian grimaced, eyes still closed, but his hand started moving again and he was comforting her.

There were bruises everywhere and something that might have been blood caked on the side of his cheek and she was fairly certain his hair didn’t look that way simply because of her hands. Emma reached out slowly, fingertips brushing over the front of his shirt and he winced again.

“That bad, huh?” he asked softly, the hint of a smile on his face.

Emma let out a shaky laugh, dimly aware of rights being read and reporters who were more like glorified blogs shouting questions in David’s direction like they’d be able to get _the scoop_ , and she shook her head, letting her fingers fall.

“How...how are you here?” Emma asked, hating the uncertainty in her voice and, well, if she actually had lost her mind she wouldn’t be surprised to find she’d dreamt all this up.

“Some very generous cab drivers.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“And Ariel, but don’t tell her I told you that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”   
  
Emma shook her head, breathing a struggle again and Killian ducked his head, pulling his hand away from her neck to graze across her cheek, brushing away tears she didn’t realize she was still crying.

“I’m fine, love,” he muttered, and her answering laugh was more of a sigh and a groan and her knees didn’t want to work much anymore.

“The worst liar in the entire world.”  
  
“Ah, well, maybe fine isn’t the right word. Bruised to hell and possibly broken in several different places.”   
  
“What?” Emma repeated, the word scratching her throat on the way out. Killian smiled softly, palm cupping her jaw when he kissed the top of her forehead. “But...they said…”   
  
“No, Emma,” he said softly. She hadn’t actually asked anything, hadn’t given voice to the question and the worry and _he came back_. It didn’t matter what she hadn’t said. “Never.”   
  
She exhaled, body sagging forward slightly and she’d lost track of the number of puzzles they were trying to put together, but she was fairly positive they’d won.

Defeated the big boss.

And survived.

Or whatever the proper gaming term was.

“Are you alright?” Killian asked.

Emma nodded. “Are you? I mean...aside from bruised and broken. They...Neal...”

“I know, Swan. I know. They, uh, well they made it painfully obvious that this wasn’t just about video games.”  
  
“Not a very specific answer, counselor.”   
  
He hummed, gaze darkening slightly and disappointment lingering in the slight shift of his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said softly, and her lungs seemed to shrink and her ribs ached and maybe that was just him because he couldn’t seem to move without wincing.

“Emma!”

She twisted again, Killian’s hand falling to her hip and neither one could seem to stop touching the other, determined to make sure it was real and neither one of them had disappeared or sustained any more bruises.

David jogged towards them – eyes widening when they landed on Killian’s face and he waved his left hand through the air, mumbling something about _fine_ and ignoring Emma’s quiet scoff. “We need a statement, Em,” David continued. “Or the Feds do.”   
  
“The Feds?”   
  
He practically beamed at her. And that felt oddly out of place. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re, uh, well we’re taking them all in. For everything. The lines and the shit with the League and half the goddamn team had product on them here. And, uh…”

David cut himself off, pressing his lips together tightly and Emma lifted her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of it and trying not to rest too much of her weight on Killian. He just tightened his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side.

“Because he was in charge of New Orleans?” Killian asked, and David nodded.

“How’d you figure it out?”  
  
“Got beat up in an alley.”   
  
“Right,” David muttered, and Emma was going to sustain permanent damage from whatever heart palpitations she was experiencing. “Are you ok? You look like shit.”   
  
“David,” Emma exclaimed, but Killian laughed before the sound turned into another groan and she didn’t know who to glare at.

“Ariel and several cab drivers would agree with you,” Killian muttered. “I’ve got one question though.” David hummed, mumbling something that sounded like _naturally_ and Killian brushed his lips over Emma’s hair before he continued. He never moved his hand. “How’d Cassidy, Barrie, whatever, get back in Gold’s good graces? If he lost New Orleans then he should be out completely or...worse.”   
  
Emma stiffened – Killian and David both noticing, but she brushed them off and tried to breathe. Three in and hold for...something she couldn’t remember. Mary Margaret was going to be disappointed.

“Ah, yeah, so we had the rat, right?” David began. “And he confirmed the Wesselton connection, but we could never figure out how Wesselton decided to join up with you guys. Until about half an hour ago.”  
  
“How?” Emma asked. _Demanded_. It was definitely a demand.

“Helm. Who just confirmed every single theory we’ve even considered. You were right, Jones, he absolutely did know everyone.”  
  
Emma’s neck was going to break at some point, she was sure, but she twisted it anyway, gaping at Killian who kept his hand on her hip and nearly smiled when he met her gaze. “A theory, love,” he muttered.

“Anyway,” David continued. “You were right. Cassidy was there from the start, was running New Orleans for years before you even started writing and then you started writing and, well, from what I gathered, he didn’t take the idea of losing a city very well.”  
  
Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, eyebrows shifting slightly and Emma wrapped her fingers around the hand hanging at his side. “Accidents,” he muttered.

She felt like she’d fallen through ice.

David kept talking. “Right, right,” he said. “So Cassidy got desperate, but she...uh, well, Helm said...she wasn’t…”  
  
Emma turned, her shirt twisting under Killian’s fingers when he seemed to hold on tighter. She could see the muscles in his throat move when he swallowed and a vein in his temple jumped, but he didn’t actually move, just stared over David’s shoulder.

_Or next time, I’ll make sure nothing misses._

“They weren’t coming for her,” Killian said softly, and David must have nodded because he made a quiet sound of agreement. “So he fucked up even more then. If he wasn’t trying to...I didn’t die.”  
  
“True,” David admitted. “But they got you out of New Orleans and they never totally left New Orleans. They waited. And Cassidy started streaming. He started making money. He kept his connects and he got Helm out of jail and they waited. And when they’d gotten enough that they were in control, they went to Gold and made a deal.”   
  
“And he agreed?” Emma asked. “Why?”

“Yeah, see that’s the part I couldn’t figure out at first either, but our guy Gold...well, he’s an asshole. And not just an asshole, a decidedly power-hungry one. He wanted to get back to New Orleans and then expand from there and Neal had a way to do that while bringing in even more cash and more control and an entire audience that already watched Pan for years.”  
  
Emma considered that for a moment.

And it made sense.

“Holy shit,” she sighed, drawing a quiet laugh out of Killian and he didn’t wince when he pulled her against his chest.

David smiled. “I don’t think you can use that as your official statement, Em, but, yeah, pretty much. They were both going after the same thing. But Neal was willing to leave tracks and those tracks led back to Gold. Finally.”  
  
“So what happens now?”   
  
“Justice prevails.”   
  
“Yeah, how long will that take?”   
  
Killian laughed again, not able to turn it into a more appropriate noise for the situation, and David tried to glare at Emma, but they were in the middle of a crime scene and he still hadn’t actually explained what he meant by the connection to the League and she couldn't seem to actually stop crying.

She wanted to sit down.

She wanted to get out of Times Square.

She wanted to go home.

“At least a few days,” David muttered, tugging her away from Killian and wrapping his arms around her, one hand cupping the back of his head when he kissed her hairline. “You know what, the Feds can wait. Get out of here. Make sure Jones doesn’t pass out or something. He really looks like shit.”  
  
Emma burrowed her head against David’s neck, holding on to him like he was some kind of buoy and she was back to the metaphors and the clichés, but he didn’t move and he’d done a very good job of playing hero.

Again.

“It’s going to be alright, Em,” he whispered, muttering the words in her ear. She believed him. “They’re gone.”  
  
She pulled away, leaving a slightly damp button-up in her wake and he was right about that too. Neal and Gold were gone – the Second Star players she didn’t actually know being filed out of the door as well and Jefferson flashed her something that might have actually been a smile as he followed Lance across the floor.

They were gone.

And she wasn’t alone.

“Come on, love,” Killian said softly, hand finding hers and he was still warm.

Of course.

He needed stitches on his right hand and two of his ribs were badly bruised – _but not actually broken, Swan, see, fine was totally acceptable_ – and his left forearm was cut up badly where the brace had pushed into his skin, but they didn’t make him stay overnight at the hospital and he almost looked _good_ with the tiny bits of bandages on his cheeks.

She bought him a shirt in the hospital gift shop – some I Love NY monstrosity that she couldn't actually believe they sold, but it was New York and of course they’d sell merchandise in the goddamn hospital gift shop.

It, at least, got Killian to laugh.

The doctor glared at him.

There were prescriptions and instructions and something about ice and what to do if the swelling around his eye didn’t go down within the next forty-eight hours.

He grumbled about that – the entire cab ride home.

She kept calling it home. In her head. Not out loud. Until they were somewhere above 72nd Street and Killian muttered something about _some kind of pill schedule_ and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Can you just wait until we get home before you start whining?” she asked, and it was like they hadn’t just gone through _hell_ a few hours before and he hadn’t given up his job for _her_ and he stared at her like he could see her with both eyes.

“Yeah, Swan,” Killian said. “We can wait until we’re home.”

The security guard – the same one from Instagram and Twitter who, apparently, worked the oddest hours in the history of the world – blinked no less than fourteen times when they walked in, Killian limping slightly and he’d refused an x-ray on his ankle.

Stubborn asshole.

“Mr. Jones,” the security guard exclaimed, and Killian plastered an almost honest smile on his face.   
  
“Fine, Ryan. I’m fine. If a Ms. Mills shows up though, I’m definitely dead, ok?”

Emma scoffed and Killian’s smile turned genuine, but he grimaced when he tried to twist towards her. “Stop moving, I’m going to drop you,” she muttered, directing him towards the elevators and he didn’t argue when she pulled his keys out of her pocket.

She’d taken them at the hospital.

He toed out of his shoes – jacket thrown out in the hospital because _it’s ripped to shreds, Swan, just put it somewhere, I don’t want it_ – and the exhaustion seemed to hit her suddenly, working its way through every inch of her until Emma was a bit surprised to find herself still standing.

Killian fell against the couch, groaning again when he moved the wrong way.

“You can’t keep throwing body parts around like that,” Emma muttered, kicking her boots next to his and it was so domestic she was certain she’d fallen asleep already as well.

“Come sit down and take stock of all my body parts then,” he countered. God, he was smirking at her.

“You’re an idiot.”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
Emma let out a noise that might have been a sigh or a laugh or just an entire lifetime’s worth of emotion, but she moved anyway, crossing the living room in five, quick steps and no couch in the history of couches had ever been more comfortable. Killian tried to move, to wrap his arm around her or pull her legs over his, but she glared at him and he settled for brushing his thumb across the back of her wrist.

The smirk disappeared.

“Are you alright, Swan?” he asked softly, and it was different than it had been before, more intent or _emotional_ and she took a deep breath before answering.

“Yeah,” she said. “I just...um...I was terrified?”  
  
“Was that a question?”   
  
“It might have been. I was just...you gave up your byline for me?”

It obviously wasn’t the follow-up Killian expected, eyes wide and _frustratingly_ blue and his lips parted slightly when he exhaled, chest moving against the hand Emma didn’t remember resting there.

He tilted his head, smile back and eyes on her and she was still wearing a goddamn Widow’s Wail t-shirt when he lifted his hand to trail up her arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“Yes,” Killian said softly, but Emma heard each letter like it was its own story and she closed her eyes when his lips slanted across hers.

That tiny rational part of her knew there was a medicine schedule and an ice regiment and another list and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d actually closed the door behind her, but Killian’s fingers found their way into her hair and Emma might have actually sighed against him.

She felt him smile, pulling back just enough to stare at her and she could read every dictionary ever published, could learn every single language and every single word and it still wouldn't have been enough.

It was...like she came home.

And, honestly, she should have said she loved him, should have promised or _declared_ or something, but she couldn’t seem to do much more than breathe and she moved back towards him out of instinct.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Emma muttered, resting her forehead against his and his left hand had worked underneath her shirt at some point.

“Do what? The kissing? That’s disappointing. Although I wouldn't mind moving somewhere with more space. There is a perfectly good bed.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant at all.”

“I know, love,” he said, smile still there and they really should move to the bed at some point or both of them were liable to just collapse in the hallway.

“Why?”  
  
“Why what?”   
  
“Killian!”   
  
He leaned back, gritting his teeth when his back hit against the arm of the couch and Emma darted forward, hands raised like she could do something medical. “Because I could,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around hers and her breath caught when he brushed his lips over her knuckles. “And it was far easier than you’re assuming.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You’re a terrible interviewer, Swan.”

She rolled her eyes and his smile widened, fingers still tight around hers and he was doing the same thing she’d been before – trying to make sure she was still there. “Today,” Killian said, voice dropping slightly and Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth. “Or this morning or last night or whatever, the only thing I kept thinking about was you. And if you were ok. And what I’d do if you weren’t and it was short list of things I wouldn’t do. So, this...walking away from any of that was a relatively simple decision. All things considered.”  
  
“All things considered,” she echoed, and Killian hummed, nodding slightly. “I am...I’m so glad you’re here.”

That wasn’t enough either. Still wasn’t _I love you_ or _I’m sorry_ or any of the words it should have been, but it was just as true as either one of those things.

“I’m sorry that he was…” Killian started, sighing softly when words proved to be difficult for him as well. “I’m sorry, Emma.”  
  
“That’s not your fault. I still can’t quite wrap my head around that. I know it’s true and that’s what happened, but this was just supposed to be video games. I never signed up for not-quite accidental accidents and you getting beat up in alleys.”   
  
“I think it makes me look dangerous.”   
  
She groaned softly, shoulders sagging under the weight of what have been the entire criminal world. “I’m sorry too,” Emma whispered and Killian groaned that time.

“Swan, we’ve been over this. None of it was your fault.”  
  
“I know, I know, but...dangerous or not, you’ve got several bruised ribs and a backstory that is just ridiculously unfair.”   
  
“Ah, but you knew that already.”   
  
“Not when it was all connected from the start. That’s…”   
  
“Insane?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “It’s not fair.”

“And I’m not disagreeing with you, love. But there’s enough depressing backstory for several lifetimes here and I’m not all that interested in lingering in the past.”  
  
It was like something...settled.

Jeez, she was an over emotional mess with a very limited vocabulary, but it was the truth all the same. The words seemed to fall into the center of her and it was warm and _happy_ and content and there was still plenty to deal with – statements and trials and coming to terms with missing out on three million goddamn dollars – but all of those things could wait.

They just settled around her, falling away like they were actually falling _off_ her and Emma brushed her lips over Killian’s when she tucked herself lightly against his side. “What happens next, right?” she asked.

He nodded, palm flat against the front of her shirt and the ring that was still hanging there. “What happens next, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi so, uh....Neal was a bad dude. Gold was a bad dude. Love conquers all. I honestly cannot thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic about this story. It's the absolute best. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	33. Chapter 33

He needed to find his phone.

That, however, would require him to move and, strictly speaking, Killian wasn’t sure he actually could. Everything felt frustratingly stiff and the bruises on his ribs were still some kind of disgusting shade of almost-green and slightly orange that he wasn’t sure was actually healthy.

Mary Margaret promised it was healing.

And, really, he wasn’t sure why he was listening to middle school teacher Mary Margaret when it came to any of that, but he was fairly sure Emma had asked her and if agreeing to the correct color of bruises made Emma breathe just a bit easier then Killian was willing to listen to anyone’s promises or explanations.

Even if they did not have a medical degree or much more than the ability to search on WebMD – which Ariel had done every day for the last two weeks.

That’s probably what that buzzing noise was. Ariel was nothing if not insistent. And possibly feeling a little guilty for not forcing Killian to a hospital as soon as he’d shown up at her apartment. She’d apologized no less than seventy-six times – to both him and Emma.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach another apology.

It wasn’t Ariel’s fault. And his ribs weren’t even broken. They were vaguely orange and hurt like hell, even two weeks later, but he could walk without wincing and breathing was practically easy at this point and, just the night before, he’d actually stood at the kitchen counter and _stirred_ something for almost five minutes straight before Emma realized what he was doing and forced him back onto the couch.

She kissed his cheek when he collapsed into the cushions.

She probably knew where his phone was.

It was still ringing.

“Swan,” Killian called, leaning towards the open door and her side of the bed was cold. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and he didn’t actually make any noise when he stood up, just wincing slightly and he was _done_ with all of this.

He was going to walk into the kitchen and make his girlfriend coffee and then he was going to ask that very same girlfriend to move into his apartment.

Officially.

_Finally_.

And maybe that was what the ringing phone was about because if Killian was _done_ with being some kind of orange-tinted invalid, then Will was absolutely _furious_ that he and Emma hadn’t simply gone to City Hall and _declared themselves_ to each other as soon as they left the Playstation Theatre two weeks before.

The only problem with that, however – not that Killian was even considering _that_ at this point because that would have been crazy or possibly insane and they’d all had enough of both of those things for several lifetime – was that, somewhere in between Ariel’s text messages about how long stitches were supposed to stay in your body and voicemails suggesting they look into physical therapy options “so your ribs won’t get stiff or whatever,” she’d also started researching marriage laws in New York City and you couldn’t just decide to get married and then do it the same day.

And Mary Margaret would probably be disappointed if they didn’t plan something.

Not that Killian was thinking any of that.

They should probably pay rent together first.

It definitely should be more romantic than that.

And it wasn’t as if they weren’t dealing with things already. That wasn’t very romantic either. But two weeks after the Playstation Theatre and the, rather belated, trip to the hospital and both Emma and Killian had given statements and the arrests had stuck or whatever the appropriate word in that situation there was.

He hadn’t written in forever.

He’d mostly just sat on the couch and tried not to hiss too loudly when he twisted the wrong way and it all seemed decidedly unfair – they’d been through all of this and dealt with two weeks of waiting for trial dates and an investigation into the League and Widow’s Wail got its base salary, but there was no three-million dollar prize or plan for what happened next.

“Shit,” Killian mumbled, half to himself, still standing in the middle of a bedroom that he hadn’t considered solely his in months and his phone was still ringing.

Somewhere.

That sounded suddenly louder than it had a few minutes before.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked, his phone in one hand and a mug in the other. She tilted her head when he glanced up at her, eyebrows twisted slightly and the side of her mouth pulled up into something that was almost a smile.

Or probably would have been a smile if the last two weeks hadn’t happened and there weren’t opening statements at some ostentatious courthouse downtown later that afternoon and Killian didn’t want to go.

They weren’t supposed to testify. Yet. They were both going to have to testify and it just felt like one more challenge and one more obstacle and he really should be looking for a job.

He couldn’t find a job.

And Mills Media was...free-falling.

The story broke the very next day – noticeably absent from several major New York dailies, but it hit on a handful of 24-hour news channels and some primetime anchor spent their entire hour on TV questioning if there was _any journalism integrity left in the world_ while answering calls from concerned viewers.  

Cora hadn’t been arrested, yet, but that was a very large yet according to David and what he was allowed to tell them and the site had been offline for the last week. She was going to get charged with something – collusion or accessory and her threat to Killian had been part of his statement when he’d gone into the precinct.

The building had been locked for days.

There were protests outside.

Regina was going stir crazy – not allowed in her own office anymore and trying to use her old connections to get her own job, but they were, well, old and she absolutely wasn’t going to leave New York no matter what happened and…

“Hey,” Emma said softly, taking a step into Killian’s space and he nearly tripped over himself in an effort to meet her gaze. That probably wouldn’t have been very good for whatever color his ribs were that morning.

“You still with me?” she asked, and her head was still tilted slightly, a piece of hair that hadn’t made it into her hair tie falling across her face. She tried to shake it away, but it just keep falling back into place and it was so _normal_ , Killian almost forgot about jobs and money and a journalistic blackball that was going to ruin several different careers.

Scarlet hadn’t taken a photo in two weeks.

No wonder he had so much time to plan theoretical weddings.

Killian hoped he wasn’t talking to Mary Margaret. Ah shit, he was absolutely talking to Mary Margaret. Or, at least, Anna, who was definitely talking to Elsa who was talking to Ruby who was for sure talking to Mary Margaret.

He should have asked Emma to move in as soon as the first hair tie fell on the floor.

Emma laughed, pressing up on her toes and it was a miracle they both managed to keep their balance when Killian, finally, brushed that one piece of hair away from her forehead.

“You have, no less than, four hundred text messages and e-mails,” Emma said, shaking his phone like he was confused what the strange piece of technology she was holding was. “How come you’re ignoring that?”  
  
He had an answer.

He just didn’t want to talk about that.

He was a child.

Who wanted to drink some of that coffee Emma was holding and then maybe they could go walk in the park or something and that felt a bit more _grown up_ than just hiding away in his apartment so he could avoid a court date and legal obligations to speak in front of a jury and, at least, ten of those e-mails and text messages were Regina asking why he hadn’t responded to that one connection she had in Kansas City.

On the other side of the country.

Well, no, not the other side of the country – halfway to the other side of the country, but that was mostly semantics and Killian wasn’t taking a job in Kansas City.

No matter how many times Regina e-mailed him. Or texted him. Or promised him _it’s a good chance and a good circulation and stuff happens in Kansas City, really._

He was going to find his own job.

In New York.

With Emma. And a shared apartment and joint lease and, eventually, bigger things and indefinite-type things and he wasn’t leaving.

“This is a very one-sided conversation,” Emma muttered, taking a step back and her hair fell back out from behind her ear.

Killian shook his head quickly – pushing thoughts of anything that wasn’t this very specific moment into the back corners of his mind. “That’s true,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Swan. And most of those e-mails are honestly just Ariel and Scarlet. They’re bored.”

Emma hummed in the back of her throat, lips pressed together tightly and, that time, Killian didn’t wince because of his ribs or the recently-acquired scar on his palm after they took the stitches out a few days before.

Damn.

They should definitely take a walk. Or ask Lily if they could add another person to the lease in the middle of the lease or maybe find a new recipe to try and make later that night.

Or just go back to bed.

They couldn't do that last one.

“It’s fine,” Killian promised, and Emma rolled her whole head in response. “Or, you know, fine’ish. Did you sleep at all, Swan?”  
  
“Eh,” she muttered. “Enough.”

“That’s not a very convincing answer, love. There’s not anything to worry about. Scarlet’s maybe got some kind of private gig next weekend. And Ariel said Belle might know someone in the Library system who’s leaving and they need IT specialists and…”  
  
“Ariel will hate it,” Emma interrupted. “And I know about that gig. Els told me the other day. It’s for some private event that they have to go to in order to honor her parent’s memory or something and Scarlet’s going to have rent a tux.”   
  
“Wait, really?”   
  
“If you read your text messages and e-mails you’d probably know that.”   
  
Killian sighed, but she was right and it was time to face some kind of metaphorical music or something. No more sitting in the apartment. No more avoiding.

No more ignoring absolutely everything.

This had to end and the only way it did was if he put on a goddamn tie and went to court and figured out what happened after both of those things.

“Ariel's totally going to take that job with the library by the way, though, even though she'll hate it,” Emma continued, rocking back on her heels and scrunching her nose, the rush of her disappointment almost visible in the bedroom Killian just kept referring to as theirs.

“How do you know that?”  
  
“How do you not? She told M’s when we were having some kind of conference call about the overall color of your bruises,” Emma said. “I was only half listening though. Ruby kept trying to suggest ideas for streaming possibilities and what we do with our distinct lack of jobs.”  
  
He was an asshole.

And far too preoccupied. And they’d been far too busy trying to lock themselves away from everything else.

“Yeah?” Killian asked, something that felt a bit like hope and belief sinking into every single letter. Emma smiled.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I mean, it’s kind of a non-plan, plan, but it’s got potential and don’t ask me what we’d stream because neither one of us can decide on that, but it’s you know...maybe some money. And we’ve got faces.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow and that one piece of hair was really just teasing him at this point. “That is true,” he agreed. “You do have a face.”   
  
“Idiot.”   
  
“Rude. I’m injured.”   
  
“What color is the monstrosity today?”   
  
“Are you trying to get me out of my clothes, Swan? You didn’t have to use the bruise as an excuse. And I’m not in the habit of looking at my own injuries.”

She made a face, sticking her tongue out slightly, but he was more worried with the distinct amount of space in between them and Killian wasn’t actually holding anything – which made it very easy to take a step forward and rest both his hands on her hips.

“I’m sure it’s whatever shade of orange it’s supposed to be,” Killian muttered.

Emma snapped her jaw, teeth hitting together and he probably would have laughed if that didn’t actually hurt. His phone started ringing again.

“I literally just got off the phone with him,” Emma said, an apologetic look on her face.

“Who?”  
  
“Ariel really is certain your ribs are supposed to be orange. And she’s driving Scarlet insane.”   
  
“Where does Scarlet factor into any of this?”   
  
“He was the one I was on the phone with. Were you not listening just now?”   
  
“Well, you’re trying to get me out of my clothes, love,” Killian reasoned. “It makes it very difficult for me to concentrate on anything else.”   
  
And he really didn’t want to know all the reasons Scarlet was calling Emma.

Or what kind of opinions and information Scarlet was more than willing to share with Emma because he felt like he _needed to help_ Killian.

It didn’t matter.

It was obvious he’d done all of that as soon as Killian met Emma’s gaze.

“So, they have barbeque in Kansas City, right?” she asked, and that might have been the last thing he’d expected. He nearly fell over again.

Emma smiled.

“Did he tell you just now?” Killian sighed.

“Nah, couple days ago. We were trying to figure out when you’d maybe, you know, mention something about it.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning on it.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s what Scarlet figured,” Emma said. “He’s under the impression he knows you very well.”   
  
“He’s an asshole.”   
  
She laughed softly and he hadn’t actually moved his hands away from her. Her coffee was probably cold. “He’s worried. Or he was when I talked to him a couple of days ago. He seemed...something else just now.”   
  
“Something else.”   
  
“I have no idea,” Emma shrugged. “Scatterbrained?”   
  
“Probably trying to find a place to rent a tux that won’t bankrupt him.”   
  
“I don’t think that’s how tux rentals work. And he wore a tux to the holiday thing.”   
  
“And I highly doubt that very fancy event he’s going to shoot would appreciate the tux he wore to the holiday thing,” Killian pointed out. Emma made another face, but that might have been because she’d tried to take a sip of coffee. She nearly spit it out. “And,” he added. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m not going to Kansas City. No matter what kind of ridiculous dry rub they use on their barbeque.”   
  
“It’s sauce,” Emma countered. “Tomato based. Apparently.”   
  
“Why is that something you know?”   
  
She shrugged, but there was a bit of nervous energy to the movement and something in the back corner of Killian’s brain sounded at that, like he was missing a very important piece of information.

He suddenly understood scatterbrained quite a bit.

“I looked it up this morning,” she said. “I was, I don’t know, curious about the possibility of Kansas City, I guess.”  
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
Emma clicked her tongue, squeezing one eye shut and there were several different alarm bells and sirens and possibly an entire parade marching across every inch of Killian’s brain, breath caught in his throat like he was suddenly terrified of making too much noise.

“I mean you didn’t say anything and Scarlet was positive you weren’t going to say anything because, and I’m quoting verbatim here, Hook is a stubborn bastard, but…” She lifted her hands, pulling her shoulders up until he could barely make out her neck underneath her hair and it might have been the most goddamn adorable thing he’d ever seen.

“But,” Killian prompted and Emma grimaced.

“I’ve never been to Kansas City,” she said, rushing over the words and staring at her feet as soon as she opened her mouth.

The parade turned into something else entirely different and Killian couldn’t think of the word and he hadn’t written in weeks, so he was sure that was almost an acceptable excuse for a distinct lack of a vocabulary.

And his hands were still on Emma’s hips.

“No?” Killian asked, and whatever rational part of his brain was left was furious at him for talking instead of kissing her. Or moving back to the bed and working on those not-quite-jokes to get him out of his clothes.

Emma made a noncommittal noise, eyes still boring a hole into the floor. “Nah. Although I did spend, like, six months in Kansas when I was ten’ish...maybe eleven. I think there was a birthday involved. Wait, are we talking about Kansas City, Kansas or Missouri?”  
  
“Missouri.”   
  
“Ha, Scarlet owes me sixteen bucks.”   
  
“Sixteen?”   
  
“It started off as eight when we were making bets about what Zelena was going to be charged with, but then he found out about this Kansas City thing and you being difficult about this Kansas City thing and he was very certain of which Kansas City we were talking about.”   
  
“I thought it was just common knowledge that the Missouri one was more popular or populated or something,” Killian said.

“See, your _or something_ there seems to destroy your point, but I’m not going to argue it either way because I’ve made sixteen bucks and that’s more than I’ve accomplished in the last two weeks, so, you know, all things considered…”   
  
It was a very strange conversation – twisting around topics and suggestions and _almost there_ questions that they probably should have discussed as soon as they left the hospital two weeks before, but Killian couldn’t seem to focus on anything long enough to actually form a complete sentence.

“Did you go double or nothing with Scarlet?” he asked, and that wasn’t the question he was planning on either.

He was clearly very out of practice.

Emma’s cheeks flushed slightly and she nodded, biting on her lower lip like she was admitting to something particularly heinous. “Zelena’s getting her own trial,” she said. “Fraud or something very generic and she’ll probably get, like, the most minimum security, but it’s something I guess. David told me and he definitely wasn’t supposed to because that hasn’t been anywhere yet. I don’t think the Department has made that one official yet.”  
  
Killian nodded slowly – the parade retreating just a bit when he realized, not for the first time, just how _insane_ all of this was and how connected every single person was and just how much Gold had been in control of.

Or, at least, trying to control.

Neal kind of fucked all that up.

A lot.

For everyone.

Even people who weren’t in Second Star.

God, Killian’s ribs hurt again.

“Hey,” Emma whispered, twisting to stuff his miraculously still-silent phone into her back pocket. “What’s going on? Really.”  
  
“I’m not going to Kansas City,” Killian answered immediately. He wished his mind would stop rushing ahead of everything else, spouting out words and ideas and _decisions_ that he’d been certain of for far longer than he was entirely willing to admit.

Scarlet probably had wedding venues researched at this point.

Emma’s teeth dug even further into her lip, but she didn’t duck her head again and that felt like a victory and maybe the parade was actually some kind of fireworks explosion.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, pulling her hand up to rest it flat against the front of his t-shirt. “I should have told you about Zelena. You went all slack jawed up there.”  
  
“That had absolutely nothing to do with Zelena.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian shook his head. “Although, fraud, really? That’s all they could get her on?”   
  
“I didn’t really ask David for the specifics of it, to be honest. I think she was part of the deal though. That’s how they got into the Playstation and she gave up names and plans and now she gets sent away to some glorified bed and breakfast on taxpayer dollars.”   
  
Killian barked out a laugh and it felt decidedly out of place, but he also fairly certain he could actually feel the warmth from Emma’s hand seeping through the cotton of his shirt and into, like, the center of his soul or something, so maybe laughing actually made sense.

He moved his right hand away from her waist, dragging his thumb over the chain around her neck and letting his fingers card through her hair.

She closed her eyes.

“I like this side of you Swan,” he muttered, leaning forward to kiss the top of her forehead. And he swore she started breathing easier, shifting even further into his space until her arm snuck its way around his waist, feet just a hairsbreadth away from brushing against his.

“Generically frustrated by the inner workings of the New York Police Department and court systems?”  
  
“Yes, exactly that.”   
  
She scoffed, the rush of air moving across the side of his neck when she burrowed her head against his shoulder. “David said she knew Gold for years. That was part of the reason it all worked out as well as it did when Neal, I don’t know, suggested it or whatever. He wanted to get back into gaming and Gold already had connects and that was the reason he agreed to it and let Neal back into the circle. Or, you know, at least back on top of the circle. Can you actually be on top of a circle?”   
  
“I don’t think that’s geometrically possible.”   
  
“I’ll ask M’s.”   
  
“She’s got to be getting tired of all our questions.”

“Nah, that’s not how she operates,” Emma argued, but there was a smile on her face when she pulled away and maybe if he got her to keep doing _that_ , then Killian’s ribs would just knit back together on their own or whatever ribs had to do to stop hurting like hell whenever he stood up. “And,” she added. “M’s has been on some other kind of mothering trip since all of this happened. She’s...she’s worried.”   
  
“Of course she is,” Killian said, like it was the most obvious thing in the entire world. Of course it was. And while Emma may have been betting Scarlet over the legal fate of Zelena, he might have been talking to Mary Margaret about more than just the state of his various injuries.

“This isn’t anybody’s fault.”  
  
“Exactly,” Killian pressed, doing his best to try and push every ounce of certainty he had into a single word. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known that Neal was doing what he was doing, Swan.”

“The whole thing was a set up. That’s what Neal said. I was just there to take the fall. Because I didn’t go with him.”

Killian’s stomach clenched or knotted and his lungs seemed to shrink because his ribs suddenly felt too big for the rest of his body. He hoped every single member of the Lost Boys or Second Star or _whatever_ rotted.

Slowly.

“They could have made it work no matter what, love. Even if you weren’t there. You weren’t in New Orleans and that worked for years.”  
  
“I knew about the betting thing.”   
  
“And the DA wasn’t interested in that. I’m sure the great New York City legal world has had its suspicions about Gold for years. This was just an avenue to get to that point because he fucked things up.”   
  
“Gold or Neal?”   
  
Killian’s thumb moved out of instinct, tapping on Emma’s ring again and her smile was softer than it had been, but it was still there and the metaphorical fireworks in his head were very loud. “Both of them,” he said. “They were both playing each other the whole time, Swan. Gold thought he could control Neal, bring him into the Lost Boys and direct him like he’d always done with all his lackeys. He never expected Neal to want more than what he was given.”   
  
“That’s always kind of been his schtick though,” Emma mumbled. “He wanted...everything. That’s even what he was telling me at the Theatre. He wanted the entire goddamn city. Like having that kind of control would make everything else ok. I should have…”   
  
“No,” Killian snapped. “You couldn’t have done anything, Emma. If we’re going to play by those rules than I should have known who Barrie was years ago. I knew that other alias. I should have been able to connect those dots and we wouldn’t even be here.”   
  
She sighed, twisting her heel into the floor until it squeaked and that might have been the loudest noise he’d ever heard – louder even than the fireworks or the parade or the sound of his own heartbeat when she said she’d been looking up Kansas City facts.

“That’s stupid,” Emma muttered, and he laughed again before he could think better of it.

Killian nodded, tugging Emma back towards the edge of the bed and the sheets he hadn’t actually pulled back up and a pillow landed on the floor when they both flopped down. “It is,” he agreed. “We can do this forever, love. This back and forth and could have been and what might have happened if someone had been able to tug on one of those threads. But then we’ll probably just go insane and I’m not very interested in that.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like it’d suck.”   
  
“Absolutely.”

She exhaled loudly next to him, twisting her mouth and he probably shouldn’t want to kiss her because of it, but Killian found he always wanted kiss Emma, so it wasn’t really that much of a surprise.

And he was going to make good on that train of thought – twisting despite whatever it was his ribs were doing at the idea of even moving and maybe he’d moved them back to the bed because standing was a very specific type of challenge for prolonged periods of time.

Mary Margaret claimed he should stop experiencing breathing issues in another few days. They probably should have bet sixteen dollars on that.

Then he and Emma could be up thirty-two dollars total.

“I was thinking about it you know,” Emma said, distracting him from the kissing idea entirely.

“About what, Swan?”  
  
“Kansas City and whatever type of barbeque they have there. And, like, the Royals are cool, right? They’re hip or something.”   
  
“Can baseball teams be hip?”   
  
“If you win the World Series or something? I’d have to ask David.”   
  
“I think he’s fairly busy today.”   
  
“We’re totally going to be late.”   
  
“Then maybe we don’t have to go.”   
  
“Do you not want to go?” Emma asked, a note of concern in her voice that wasn’t entirely unexpected, but still managed to make Killian’s heart do something absolutely absurd.

Killian pressed his tongue on the inside of his cheek, considering his answer and trying to keep his breathing level when Emma’s fingers laced through his. “To Kansas City or court?”  
  
“Either or.”   
  
“No and no,” he said. “And Kansas City wasn’t my idea. For the record. That’s totally Gina. She feels responsible because she got me back to New York and, you know, even if Mills falls into a crater in the center of the Earth, which is honestly pretty likely at this point, she’s going to be fine. She’s got a ridiculous trust from her dad that she barely touched before she went to _The Caller_ , not to mention Robin’s pension and they’ll be ok.”   
  
Emma smiled. “So what you’re saying is that they’re just trying to parent their oldest child.”   
  
“Yeah, something like that.”   
  
They didn’t say anything for a moment – silence falling over the room, _their_ room and maybe they should talk about that before the making out he was so intent on getting to at some point.

Emma opened and closed her mouth four different times, shoulders heaving when she pulled in a deep breath and Killian barely had half a moment before she leaned forward and her lips hit his and, well, he was willing to table any other discussion if she did that.

His ribs felt like they were on fire or possibly snapping in half and both of those things were absolutely fine as soon as Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, fingernails light against the back of his neck and they were on the wrong side of the bed. Her shoulders nearly landed off the edge, pushing an unfolded blanket onto the floor with the pillows and what looked like half an untucked sheet and falling onto the ground probably would have ruined the mood.

Emma laughed – loud and easy and it felt as warm as her hand had and Killian could come up with half a dozen decidedly sentimental reasons for that.

“Enthusiastic,” she muttered, twisting underneath him and he hadn’t realized he’d shifted most of his weight to his right hand until that started to throb too. “You’re going to break open cuts and we can’t afford to buy new bedding.”  
  
“That’s totally healed, Swan,” Killian said. “They couldn’t take the stitches out otherwise. That’s what Mary Margaret told me.”   
  
“M’s is not a doctor.”   
  
“And yet I find I trust her opinion more than most medical professionals I’ve dealt with ever.”   
  
“High praise.”   
  
“Honest,” he corrected, falling onto the mattress next to her and she couldn’t really curl against him. Goddamn ribs. A week and a half more. Tops. And then no more bruising or pain and, maybe, he could fall asleep the way he wanted.

With Emma’s hair across his entire face.

That’s what Mary Mary said, at least. Well, not the part about Emma’s hair. That would have been weird.

Emma hummed in agreement, eyes closed again and hair falling over the side of the bed while she tugged on the ring around her neck.

And, really, that did it.

He started talking.

“I don’t need to be writing,” Killian said suddenly, the words far easier than he expected them to be. He should probably stop expecting things to be anything except easy when Emma was concerned.

And, really, he was a selfish asshole when Emma was concerned.

_Ask her to move into your apartment. Tell her you’ve been thinking of it as your apartment, collectively, for months._

_Marry. Her._

“Yes you do,” Emma argued. She opened her eyes, turning her head towards him and the smile was a bit different, a touch sadder and, maybe, more determined and if Killian’s heart ever beat at a normal rate again it would be an actual medical miracle.

They’d write books about it.

Mary Margaret and Ariel could look it up on WebMd.

“Probably not here though,” Killian mumbled. Those words hurt a bit more, like he was admitting to something he’d known since he’d walked away from Cora Mills. God damnit.

“Hence the great barbeque research tour.”  
  
“Good name.”   
  
“It’s got a bit of an appeal, doesn’t it?”   
  
Killian grinned, licking his lips and _not_ kissing her seemed like the insanity he was fairly sure he’d already descended into. “I love you, you know that?” he asked, and Emma’s answering smile probably could have paid for a joint lease for, at least, several years.

“Yeah,” she nodded. That one piece of hair had fallen back over her forehead. “I love you, too. And we have to go to to court.”

“Tell me about this streaming plan.”  
  
“I already did, there’s not even a real plan.”   
  
“There’s part of a plan, that’s more than I’ve got. C’mon. What do you think you’re going to do?”

She flipped onto her side, eyebrows pulled low, but he could still make out the green in her eyes – the way the color seemed to _flash_ just a bit, like she was planning forty-two steps ahead already and he could see the excitement in the quirk of her lips.

Fuck every single square inch of Kansas City. Either one.

He wasn’t leaving.

He’d start a blog. Or something.

And he was dimly aware of his phone ringing again, vibrating on what was probably the hardwood floor if the sound was any indication. Killian didn’t move an inch and his breath caught loudly when Emma traced her finger over the back of his left arm, brushing over the top of his brace and the slight bend of his elbow

“Rubes thinks we could ride some sort of Overwatch wave,” Emma started. “We were doing alright with the team and if Anna promos us a bit we might be able to drum up an audience.”  
  
“You don’t need to drum up anything, Swan. Or brass section or string section. You’ve already got the audience from Wail.”   
  
“That was the honestly the worst joke I’ve ever heard and I’ve spent actual years living with David.”   
  
“I’m going to tell him that later and he’ll love it.”   
  
“I’ve got no doubt,” she laughed, tugging her lip in between her teeth and her hand was still moving. “Anyway, we’re riding waves and playing drums and we probably won’t make three million dollars, but we’re also not going to jail, so, I guess that’s a win. And we play Overwatch and take turns or something? I don’t know that part hasn’t been totally figured out yet, but we banter and charm the Internet and we make money and ignore the inevitably awful comments we’re bound to get because the world is awful.”   
  
“That last part got a little pessimistic.”   
  
“Old habits.”   
  
“A work in progress.”   
  
“I think I could do it,” she said. “Or, you know, Rubes and I could. I mean, this whole League thing is totally fucked and I can’t...I mean, I don’t even know what the blowback from that is going to be once everyone starts testifying and trial’ing...is that a verb?”   
  
Killian shook his head. “I don’t think so.”   
  
“See, you totally need to write again.”   
  
“And you need to play.”   
  
Emma sighed, licking her lips and propping her head up on her free hand. His phone was still making noise. “Scarlet is very impatient,” she mumbled, an answer without actually being an answer because nobody had actually asked a question.

He was, suddenly, a shit interviewer.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were tag-teaming, honestly,” Killian grumbled. “He’s probably with Gina and Locksley at this point, just taking turns when I ignore all of them.”  
  
“Ariel too. She texted, like, six times while I was walking down the hallway.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
She kissed him – far quicker than he wanted it to and he flinched slightly when he tried to chase after her, body not quite prepared for quick and sudden movements yet. “Stop moving so much,” Emma chastised lightly, but there was still that very specific flash in her eyes and he’d be more than willing to go anywhere if meant she went with him.

Even in New York without a byline and a phone that was probably going to die in two minutes because his friends wouldn’t leave him alone.

“We’ll figure it out, right?” Emma asked, a note of something that might have been hope in her voice. “Because, you know, I looked up stuff, but I don’t really care about baseball or barbeque sauce all that much.”  
  
“Yeah,” he said. He meant it. Again. “We will. Although your brother probably won’t laugh at my shitty jokes if we’re late to court.”   
  
“They won’t let us in if we’re late to court.”

“Don’t tempt me like that, Swan.”

She smiled again and something seemed to settle, like the oxygen had returned to the room or the world started spinning at an appropriate rate again. “C’mon, counselor,” Emma said, jumping back off the bed and holding her hand out expectantly. “Let’s go sit on horrible uncomfortable benches for a few hours.”

The benches were as uncomfortable as advertised – some kind of downtown torture device that Killian only managed to get through with Emma’s fingers twisted up in his and her thumb brushing across his palm and Scarlet’s near-constant stream of under-his-breath commentary that was actually, almost, funny.

He didn’t say that out loud.

Regina, a few feet away, with Robin on one side and Ariel on the other, didn’t seem quite as amused, sighing at every other comment and, at one point, rolling her eyes so dramatically that Killian was sure they were going to stick that way.

“What’s your deal, your majesty?” Killian asked, leaning forward and brushing off Emma’s quiet exclamation about _hurting yourself_. Will laughed.

They were all going to get charged with contempt.

“Will you shut up,” Robin hissed. He wrapped an arm around Regina’s shoulders and that might have been the strangest thing that happened all day. Killian sat back, pressing his spine into the bench and Emma tightened her hold on his hand. “And,” Robin continued, voice dripping with frustration and parental disappointment. “Answer your phone.”  
  
“What could have possibly been so important?” Killian asked. “I knew you guys were going to be here. It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again.”   
  
“Because he’s not going to Kansas City,” Ariel muttered, and Will made some kind of triumphant noise that probably should have been quieter considering where they were.

Robin rolled his head back, a put-upon look on his face like both Henry and Roland had just gotten an entire school year’s worth of detention and then cursed out every adult they knew. Or something.

Killian was fairly sure kids didn’t get detention when they were Henry and Roland’s age.

David glared at them from several benches away, decked out in full uniform and another shoulder holster and that might have been even more intimidating than Robin Locksley in full-on dad mode.

“Scarlet, seriously, I will totally turn you in if we get charged with contempt this afternoon,” Killian seethed. “And make sure you give Emma her sixteen bucks later. We can get fancy coffee.”  
  
Emma glanced at him. “What makes you think I’m going to use my well-earned betting money on your fancy coffee? Sixteen bucks is, like, four of my own coffees.”   
  
“Oh my God, they’re flirting,” Regina grumbled, slumping down on the bench until her very expensive heels were halfway under the seat in front of her.

None of this made sense.

“I’m not going to Kansas City,” Killian said, staring at Regina over several other friends and quasi-family members and he was fairly positive he saw David’s head snap up.

They all gossiped far too much.

No wonder they were about to have this conversation in the middle of court.

The goddamn district attorney was _still_ talking.

Regina made a face, not quite a shrug, but not quite a dismissal and Killian stared at Emma, hoping for some kind of explanation. She shook her head. “I’m not an idiot,” Regina hissed, twisting underneath Robin’s arm to stare at Killian. “I knew you were never going to do that. I was trying to give you options so you can pay your rent.”  
  
“I am paying my rent.”

“As a collective unit?”  
  
Killian stiffened, eyes going wide and mouth going dry and Will snickered. The district attorney actually turned around at the sound.

“Oh my God, we’re all going to spend the night in jail,” Robin muttered.

Emma didn’t move, just kept her hand twisted up with his and Killian could feel her shoulders shift when they brushed against his, the force of her breathing distracting him from Regina’s glare long enough to turn back towards her.

She smiled.

“Gina,” Killian warned, but he could still feel her trying to push her gaze into the back of his head and he really should have answered his phone if he wanted to ignore all of this.

Regina actually _did_ shrug at that, Robin’s fingers tightening around the curve of her shoulder. “Please,” she muttered. “You’re almost painfully slow. How has this not happened yet?”   
  
“And you really should have answered your phone this morning,” Robin added. “This would have made all of this so much easier.”   
  
“You guys being complete assholes?” Killian asked, ignoring whatever Will’s face did at the frequent insult. Ariel stuck her tongue out at him.

Regina didn’t even blink. “You fall back on these old favorites because you’re out of practice,” she said. “That’s why you should be writing again.”  
  
“Didn’t we just do this?”   
  
“Hook, seriously, you are practically yelling,” Robin sighed. Will laughed again – loudly. The judge stared at them. “Oh my God. I’m not bailing any of you out.”   
  
“You are married to Gina. And who’s picking up your kids? Shit, Gina, are you still making Aurora work for you?”   
  
“Who do you think I am?” Regina snapped. “No, she worked for Mills. And there is no more Mills.”   
  
Killian deflated a bit at that, falling back on old favorites again and it was very easy to blame himself even when he told Emma none of this wasn’t anyone’s fault just a few hours before. The benches were just absurdly uncomfortable.

“You really should answer your phone more,” Ariel muttered, not bothering to take her head off Will’s shoulder when she started talking. “There’s going to be, like, a lot of pounding the pavement or working sources or whatever jargon you want to use with this one.”  
  
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian admitted.

“Because you don’t answer your phone.”

The defense lawyer was talking now – the lies almost visible in the middle of the courtroom and Killian chanced a glance back towards David, in the middle of an eye roll and a head shake and Lance looked like he was plotting several different things at the far end of the bench, disbelief written on his face with every word promising Gold was just _misunderstood_.

“Mary Margaret is watching Rol and Henry, by the way,” Will said, answering a question Killian had forgotten he’d actually asked. “One great, big happy family. Right, Em?”  
  
Emma grinned. “I want my sixteen bucks, Scarlet.”   
  
“Ah, damn.”   
  
“Kansas City, Kansas isn’t even a real place,” Ariel said. “There’s, like, not even a newspaper there. Or people.”   
  
“There are absolutely both newspapers and people in Kansas City,” Robin argued. Regina was still staring at Killian.

And the defense lawyer was already sitting down again.

Huh.

Maybe there was a bit of hope. Or justice. That seemed kind of dramatic, though.

“Is it over?” Will asked. Glancing around the courtroom when people started filing towards the door. David winked at Emma when he walked by, Lance half a step behind and Killian didn’t actually stand up.

He looked back at Regina, lifting his eyebrows slightly and waited.

Patiently.

Well, almost patiently.

Robin laughed. “Old favorites,” he muttered, holding up both hands in surrender when Regina turned her glare on him and Will looked like he was close to actually falling on the floor, the sound of his laugh echoing off the walls of the suddenly silent room.

“Honestly, Gina, you’ve got to take a deep breath,” Will said, tapping his finger knowingly on her arm. Killian was almost surprised it didn’t just immediately burst into flames. “This is going to work. We’ve done the math.”  
  
“Mary Margaret has done the math,” Ariel corrected, and Killian was going to bruise his neck as well if he kept snapping it back and forth, trying to look at everyone at once while still staring at Emma and the slightly hopeful smile on her face.

“We all need to stop making Mary Margaret do so much stuff for us,” Killian said.

Regina clicked her tongue. “She was worried about Emma.”  
  
“What is going on here, really?”

The courtroom had all but emptied out entirely and Killian could only imagine what they all looked like – crammed onto one bench in ties and suit jackets and heels that would probably sound absurdly loud on the tiled floor when they did, eventually, decide to go anywhere else.

Regina took a deep breath, the glare practically falling off her face and morphing into something Killian was certain had disappeared as soon as those first gunshots rang out on Delancey.

And it struck him like lightning or getting pulled out by a particular strong undertow as soon as he realized.

Ariel threw her whole head back when she laughed. “God, took you long enough,” she mumbled, her smile practically clinging to the words and Robin looked close to proud.

“How?” Killian asked. _Demanded_. Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, shifting against his side and this was the weirdest day in the history of weird days and Robert Gold was absolutely going to rot in jail.

“I am not without...options,” Regina said evasively, and he tried not to sigh too loudly. It didn’t matter. Will did.

“Oh my God, Gina,” Will groaned, still slumped halfway down the bench with Ariel twisted around his side. “This is just ridiculous. Hook,” he shouted, standing up abruptly. Ariel growled at him. “We’re starting a website. Of good shit. Good journalism shit.”  
  
“Good journalism shit,” Killian repeated slowly. Will kicked him. So did Robin.

“Hey,” Emma yelled, kicking back at both of his friends. “We’re not doing this. His ribs are only just now an appropriate shade of orange.”

“Should your ribs be orange, Hook?” Robin asked.

Killian hummed, mumbling a dismissive noise that probably would have earned him another kick if Emma wasn’t still glaring at Robin. “Mary Margaret said it was fine.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s ok then.”

“Can we get back to what we were talking about?” Will yelled, still standing and maybe jumping a bit to emphasize his point.

“To be fair,” Ariel said. “We haven’t exactly explained anything. Just told Killian he was stupid and then attacked him.”  
  
“You were the one who said I was being dense, A,” Killian pointed out. She shrugged.

“I’m going to get new business cards. Head of research and global SEO manager.”  
  
“Those are, I’m assuming, words?”   
  
“Oh my God, I’m going to start to kick you.”   
  
Killian grinned at her, glancing quickly at a still-stoic Regina who just lifted her eyebrows when he turned towards him. “How, Gina?” he asked. “Honestly. And why the Kansas City push?”   
  
“Because I wasn’t sure if this was going to work until today,” she said.  “That’s why your phone was going to ring to death. I knew the money was there, but, this is not exactly my forte here. I’m not used to just...starting things.”   
  
“Did I honestly just hear you admit to some kind of weakness, your majesty?”

“Did she just say _ring to death_ ,” Will laughed, but he stopped talking as soon as Robin swatted the back of his head.   
  
Regina’s eyebrows moved again, lips a thin red line on her face and Killian felt like he was twenty-one and letting her read his copy for class. “I can retract my offer,” she said.   
  
“You haven’t actually offered me anything,” Killian laughed. “But I’ll probably take it.”   
  
“There are no benefits.”   
  
“You’re paying for my medical.”   
  
“That’s because I felt guilty you got beat up in an alley.”   
  
“That wasn’t your fault, Gina.”   
  
She pressed her tongue against the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t actually disagree and they were the only people in the entire courtroom, but Killian felt like they were sitting in front of an audience of thousands.

“When?” he asked, and only one of Regina’s eyebrows shifted that time.

“Soon,” she answered. “Maybe a couple weeks. We’re going to make absolutely no money, but I can, at least, pay you. And you can keep paying your rent. On your own.”  
  
“That was subtle.”   
  
“You can write about this.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Regina waved a hand through the air and Robin was still staring at Killian like he’d just watched him graduate college with honors – again. They’d both been there when he graduated.

“It’s a good story,” Emma said softly, and he’d absolutely done damage to his neck. “I mean, aside from your almost obvious bias, but, you know, whatever.”  
  
“Whatever,” Will echoed, punching his fist above his head and Ariel was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.

“We’ll have some ethics,” Regina promised. “They’re kind of ruined to begin with since you’re living with your source, but you’re, apparently, not paying rent together so maybe there’s an asterisk next to it.”  
  
Killian groaned and Regina actually smiled at him – a knowing look on her face that made it all but impossible to argue with her. “Almost laying it on too thick, don’t you think?”   
  
“Not when Mary Margaret Nolan is watching my kids and we just hired Belle French as ombudsman for the site.”   
  
“Can you afford that?”   
  
“I said we weren’t going to make any money, I didn’t say we’d be destitute. What do you think I’ve been doing for the last two weeks? We’ve been picking up advertisers and trying to figure out coding and launch times and how Google Analytics works.”   
  
“I know how Google Analytics works,” Ariel said. “That’s what the SEO on my new business cards is about.”

Killian nodded like that made any sense at all, glancing over his shoulder at Emma. She smiled. Again. Or still.

He wasn’t going to argue about the semantics.

“What do you think, love?” Killian asked, breathing just a bit easier when Emma’s hand fell back against the front of his jacket.

“You need to be more specific, counselor.”

“You want to stay in New York? With me? On some kind of never-ending basis.”  
  
“This is honestly the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Will grumbled, not even bothering to keep his voice low when he looked at Ariel. She shook her head, disappointment rolling off her in almost palpable waves. “You owe me a week’s worth of coffees, A. And I get that _head photo_ title now, Gina.”   
  
Killian tried to ignore them. He did, honestly, but they were all talking and Emma was still smiling at him, like she was almost amused by all of this _family_ and they were going to start their own website.

Liam was probably cheering somewhere.

“Can you guys stop being fucking idiots for two seconds, please?” Killian begged. Ariel laughed louder. Robin clapped him on the shoulder.

Dad-mode, _ultimate level_ , achieved.

“I’m not buying you new business cards,” Robin said. “And I didn’t bet on any of this after I won that first one. I knew you were an ethic-less rogue.”  
  
“That one was actually good.”   
  
“I’ve been saving that one for a special occasion. You owe me for this.”   
  
Killian didn’t have a chance to actually ask _what the hell are you talking about_ before Robin stood up, nodding towards the still open door at the far end of the room and Regina might have even smiled when she stood up.

“Clear, concise sentences, Hook,” Will instructed. “Straight to the point. None of those adjectives you’re so fond of.”  
  
“Go away,” Killian sighed, and Robin pushed on Will’s shoulder, forcing him forward and chuckling when he tripped over his own dress shoes.

It only took a few moments for their footsteps to retreat, silence falling on the room and Killian could hear himself breathing. Or maybe that was Emma. He was fairly certain she was breathing. Her shoulders were moving.

He hoped that wasn’t some kind of sign.

“They were idiots,” Killian said, grimacing when the words fell out of him and he wondered when he’d lost the ability to communicate like an actual adult human. Probably when he realized he could have it _all_ in some kind of overwhelming way.

So, like, five minutes ago.

“Were we not really already?” Emma asked, and he’d apparently lost the ability to understand words as well. “I mean, everyone definitely thought that. Ruby was making fun of me about it before. Like weeks ago. All my clothes are uptown.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Really?”  
  
Emma laughed, nodding with wider-than-usual eyes and he couldn't think when all he could see was green. “You are terrible at asking questions. We’ll have to practice or something. That sounded weird. Was that weird?”   
  
“Maybe a little bit, but I’m admittedly still a few sentences behind in this conversation.”

“What are you stuck on?”  
  
“You moving in with me. Officially. I really don’t care about the rent. That’s not really the highlight here. Gina’s just…”   
  
“Probably stressed out about starting a new website,” Emma finished, and Killian hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I kind of picked up on that.”   
  
“Smart.”   
  
“It happens from time to time. Stick around and you can take note of all the times it happens.”   
  
“Deal,” Killian said, quickly and maybe a bit enthusiastically and the word sounded like some kind of pledge as soon as it was out of his mouth.

He kissed her. Or she kissed him. And they probably leaned towards each other at the same time because that had just kind of been their _thing_ from the very beginning, jumping into this and them and if they kept doing that for the rest of his entire goddamn life, Killian wouldn’t argue.

“If this streaming thing works, I’ll totally pay rent,” Emma muttered, forehead resting against his, but he could still make out the smile on her face and he was definitely going to become some kind of study on WebMd.

“Deal,” he repeated. “I love you.”  
  
“I really didn’t want to go to Missouri. I would have, though.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“And I love you, too.”   
  
They were still sitting on the bench – and making out like teenagers – when a security guard showed up and told them they had to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, we're reaching the final stretch of angst and feelings and drama. I can't thank you guys enough for sticking with this mess of words and commenting and having thoughts. It's honestly the greatest. I have no self control so I've already written a ton of Christmas fic. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	34. Chapter 34

There wasn’t really anything to move. 

Emma had, more or less, moved uptown weeks ago –  _ months ago _ , honestly, as soon as there was a lease and her pile of clothes hadn’t been a pile of clothes in what felt like forever. 

She had hangers. 

Actual plastic hangers that weren’t just the wire ones they gave you when you picked up your dry cleaning. Not that she was really getting anything dry cleaned. 

Because her clothes were already hanging up. 

Nothing was really wrinkled. 

So, really, there wasn’t an official moving day. She came home after that first day in court and they tried some new recipe and it was awful and they bought falafel from the place around the block. 

Nothing changed. 

There was just a day and then a few more days that became nights and weeks and something so incredibly domestic, that even, weeks later, the thought of it left Emma smiling like a goddamn idiot. 

Ruby kept laughing about it on the stream. 

And claiming that she got to take credit for all of this because, as she was quick to point out,  _ I put your number in his phone, Em. This is all me. And my speech is going to be so much better than Scarlet’s _ . 

That really almost didn’t totally freak Emma out. 

Honestly. 

She had hangers and, at least, six containers of actually purchased cinnamon in cabinets that were, technically, half hers and then another three containers of stolen cinnamon and her charger stayed plugged into an outlet on her side of the bed. 

She had a side of the bed. 

She’d had that since Philadelphia. 

Jeez. 

Emma took a deep breath, flipping onto her back and she hadn’t really expected to find Killian on his side of the bed because the sun was up, so, naturally, he was awake. She could just barely make out the smell of coffee – and cinnamon, stolen or otherwise, and something that might have been chocolate – and there was yelling coming from the living room. 

Or, rather, there was screaming coming from the living room. 

It sounded vaguely frustrated. 

Emma narrowed her eyes, trying to hear actual words and it didn’t sound like there were any – just dramatic sighs and what sounded like several different limbs falling across the couch and, possibly, the floor. 

She didn’t even look at her phone when she swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. 

God, she had blankets too. Plastic hangers and blankets and she’d been right – the couch was covered in several different human beings and twisted up limbs and if Killian actually hurt his ribs again she was going to kill him. 

If she didn’t just...melt first or something. 

“Hook, you can’t just pull the controller out of my hand that’s cheating,” Henry accused, but there was a tinge of laughter to his voice and none of the words were quite even when his whole body was shaking. 

And half hanging over the arm of the couch. 

While wearing a Widow’s Wail t-shirt. 

With Roland sitting on his stomach. 

She probably shouldn’t have been worried about Killian’s ribs. 

“You’ve got to be more aware of your surroundings, kid,” Killian countered, tossing his own controller onto the coffee table and grabbing Roland around the waist. “And you’ve already won enough races. You’re bruising my ego.”  
  
Henry made a noise – something that sounded like a groan and a general sound of video-game disgust that seemed to actually match up with the theme music playing in the background. Roland yelped when Killian moved him again, trying to keep his feet away from any other limbs, but it didn’t really work and both of them made noise when something – possibly Roland’s heel – collided with the top of Killian’s thigh. 

“Hey, Emma,” Roland shouted, somehow twisted over Killian’s shoulder now and she wasn’t sure who grunted louder when he tried to stand up. On Killian. 

“Hey, Rol,” she smiled, taking a step forward and Henry was already talking about  _ another round _ and  _ you’ve got to play, Emma _ and she was the least responsible adult in the entire history of watching kids that weren’t actually hers because she barely even heard any of that as soon as she looked at Killian. 

It wasn’t really any different than it normally was – the way his lips ticked up slightly as soon as he twisted around towards her or how she could almost see his shoulders sag just a bit, like he was exhaling or  _ settling _ and there was  _ that _ word and she really needed some coffee because her whole body felt like it was moving in slow motion. 

It wasn’t really any different than it normally was – the rush of something Emma was fairly sure she’d never be able to actually name shooting down her spine and she knew she was smiling or, possibly, swooning and that wasn’t really her MO, but it might have become her  _ thing _ in her own apartment in Manhattan and three weeks after a move-in date that wasn’t really a move-in date, she still wasn’t entirely prepared to find her boyfriend playing MarioKart with two kids that weren’t actually theirs. 

“Did you guys wake up early to scream about MarioKart?” she asked, and Killian’s smirk turned into a grin and her knees felt just a bit more  _ wobbly _ than usual. 

“We woke up at a totally appropriate time, Swan,” Killian said, mumbling something under his breath when Roland tried to climb over the top of the couch. 

“What time is it, even?”

“Almost ten.”  
  
Emma nodded and her knees were still doing something absurd, but that might have been because it was almost ten and there was a reason Henry and Roland had camped out in their living room the night before, the remnants of an actual blanket fort still apparent in the corner of the room. 

Killian had folded up the blankets. 

Jeez. 

There was a trial. Or, well, there was the end of a trial. It probably just started. Or, well, was about to start. 

That was confusing. She needed coffee. 

And Emma didn’t care. About the trial. She cared about coffee, just not the trial. 

No, that was a lie. She cared. She just didn’t care enough to go downtown or go back to that vaguely enormous courthouse and absurdly uncomfortable benches because  _ justice was going to prevail _ or whatever David had promised her the night before. 

She’d already testified – sat on the stand like she was guest starring on some cop show on NBC or CBS or, possibly, the CW because it all felt a little juvenile and they really made you put your hand on a bible. 

And she’d talked. 

She’d answered questions and explained why she hadn’t agreed to switch to Second Star –  _ I didn’t really have a ton of interest in playing video games with a guy who got me sent to jail, weirdly enough _ – and detailed what Graham had told her after the second round and what Neal had shouted in the middle of the goddamn Playstation Theatre when it all came crashing down. 

And, now, some jury of her peers or his peers or however it was supposed to go, was going to decide whether or not Neal Cassidy was going to go to jail for a very long time on a very long list of charges that he’d absolutely committed. 

David wanted her to go. 

He claimed it was something about  _ closure _ or  _ wrapping things up _ and there might have been a woefully bad joke about a bow and both Ruby and Elsa had punched him. 

Mary Margaret just kept looking at Emma – something that felt like a million and two years ago and an understanding that never really made sense, but Mary Margaret had given Emma a handful of plastic hangers when she helped her fill that closet in Ruth’s house and this metaphor had, officially, taken on a life of its own. 

“She doesn’t have to go,” Mary Margaret said and, well, that was that. 

David didn’t argue. Or end up on the wrong end of any more punches. And Emma didn’t go to court – she offered up the living room instead to forts and MarioKart and Henry and Roland stayed with them, even on a school night, so the rest of the Wail-not-quite-Mills-Media-contingent could spend the entire morning sitting on uncomfortable benches downtown. 

“Swan,” Killian said, and she got the distinct impression it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention. He smiled. 

“Still here,” she muttered. “Sorry, sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
“I asked if you were ok.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“You’re gripping that blanket like you’re scared it’s going to try and start strangling you.”

“I don’t think the blanket is sentient.”   
  
He laughed, grunting slightly when he stood up and Roland moved with him, draped over his shoulder with his knees dangerously close to ribs that were only just recently deemed  _ fine _ by several different internet searches. 

“Good word,” Killian said, hitching Roland up and none of this could have been good for his ribs. She’d read he wasn’t supposed to be sitting down for too long and an actual child laying across him was probably, at least, six times worse than just sitting somewhere. 

“Emma, are you going to play?” Roland asked excitedly, eyes wide with a distinct lack of sleep. It was probably because they’d had a considerable amount of chocolate covered popcorn the night before. 

And built a blanket fort. 

“Give me a couple minutes to get some coffee, ok,” she said, leaning forward to tug on the collar of his shirt. Killian’s free hand fell on her waist. 

And maybe that’s why she didn’t go downtown. 

She didn’t have to. 

Whatever happened downtown wasn’t going to change anything. 

“You should stream MarioKart,” Roland continued, clearly not impressed by Emma’s fundamental need to drink, at least, four cups of coffee within the first hour of waking up. “When you and Rubes play again. Then you could play together.”   
  
Emma considered that for a moment – only a week and a half into the new  _ plan _ and they kept streaming from the room upstairs at Granny’s. Mostly because they didn’t really have anywhere else to go and neither one of them was willing to stream from their apartments. 

The Internet was, still, sometimes, the worst. 

And, sometimes, the Internet was kind of ok and streaming with Ruby was actually pretty fun and they’d made a questionable amount of money in the first week and a half. 

Emma was absolutely going to be able to pay half her rent. 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Emma mused, and maybe they could stream a little bit later that night. After...whatever happened that afternoon. 

“Here, c’mon, Rol,” Henry started, sitting up straighter and grabbing Killian’s discarded controller from the coffee table. “We’ll play some practice races and then we can absolutely destroy Hook. You know, again.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes – but that might have been because Roland was trying to climb down his side and nearly collapsed in a heap on the floor before his feet actually landed. “We built a fort, kid,” he said and Henry shrugged. “Rough crowd.”  
  
“The fort was really good though,” Henry said quickly, eyes back on the screen and fingers flying across his controller and Roland hadn’t even made it back to the couch before another race started. 

“An engineering marvel.”  
  
“Well, we did use books as weights,” Emma pointed out, and Henry hummed in agreement like using several thrift-store hardcovers to hold down the edges of, just, a questionable amount of blankets, made all the difference in the world. 

It might have. 

She was absolutely a sentimental mess in the morning. She really should drink the entire pot of coffee. 

“We probably should have taken pictures,” Henry said, eyes still on the screen and Roland had finally caught up to the game, helped just a bit by Killian twisted over the back of the couch to make sure that the car actually stayed on the track. 

“For what?” Emma asked. “Posterity?”  
  
“Bragging rights. Uncle Will’s going to be crazy jealous.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s absolutely true,” Killian agreed. He’d absolutely been distracted by the game. “He’ll probably want to talk about structure and foundation for several hours tonight.”  
  
Emma laughed under her breath, still holding on tightly to the blanket as she rocked back on her heels. “Red shell,” she muttered, ignoring Henry’s quiet growl of frustration when it appeared the entire living room had conspired against him. 

“Ah, Emma,” he yelled, rolling his whole head and her laugh just seemed to fall out of her. Weird. No, good. Good weird? 

Domestic, good weird?  
  
None of those words made sense in that order. 

God, she needed coffee. 

“You’re the one talking trash, kid,” she pointed out, taking a step forward and pulling one hand away from the blanket to trail her fingers against the back of Killian’s neck. She felt his shoulders shift against her arm, the way he just seemed to kind of shift towards her without thinking about it, leaning towards her or maybe she was leaning towards him. 

Whatever. 

It didn’t matter. 

She was still far too busy swooning over domesticity and the engineering decisions of living room blanket forts. 

“And,” Emma added. “You’ve already lapped them.”  
  
Henry hummed distractedly before letting out a triumphant sound when he crossed the finish line first and they’d created some kind of video-game playing monster in the corner of the couch. “This game is the absolute worst,” Killian grumbled, slumping dramatically over the back of the couch. 

“You’re going to injure yourself again,” Emma muttered, but there wasn’t much of a threat in her words and her fingers moved into his hair out of instinct. 

Or want. 

Or whatever. 

That didn’t matter either. She was a broken record. And David couldn’t text trail updates while he was in court. Maybe Ruby would. She would be more than willing to break the law on Emma’s behalf, which, all things considered was almost painfully ironic. 

“I’m fine, Swan,” Killian said, ruffling Roland’s hair before standing back up and the smile might have been carved on his face at this point. He lowered his eyebrows when he noticed the look on her face – something she was positive was a not-quite-normal mix of, at least, eighty-seven different emotions and the misplaced desire that her only-recently acquired business partner would commit some kind of crime that morning. 

“Are you?” he asked, and she couldn't even come up with a response because her mind could seem to settle on anything for longer than half a second. 

Goddamnit that word again. 

Henry and Roland both noticed her distraction, twisted up with looks on her face that Emma wasn’t quite sure what to do with – concern and  _ certainty _ that she was a responsible adult who could  _ handle things _ and really she could. Maybe. Hopefully. 

She was happy. 

She had an apartment. 

She had several sets of hangers. 

And she really didn’t want to go to court because it didn’t really matter. 

She had a home. 

“Yeah,” Emma said, pleasantly surprised to realize she meant it. “Honestly though, you’re going to crack your ribs in half.”   
  
Killian scoffed, but the smile didn’t waver and both Henry and Roland made decidedly  _ childish _ noises when he ducked his head and kissed her. She let go of the blanket. 

“You’re going to scar the children,” she mumbled, but she could still feel the way his lips quirked up and his fingers brushed across her back, twisting the edge of her shirt slightly. He didn’t move an inch. 

“They can deal.”   
  
“I don’t know about that,” Henry grumbled, and Emma glanced to her side long enough to seem him slouch into the corner, throwing his feet over the back of the couch in a move that was almost  _ painfully _ her. 

Huh. 

“See if I argue for ice cream on your behalf later,” Emma muttered. She’d done it almost entirely for the reaction – either out of Roland or Henry, she wasn’t going to be too particular – and she was reward almost immediately, matching sounds of indignation and dropped controllers and someone’s car fell off the edge of Rainbow Road. 

“But we were going to try all the chocolate ones,” Roland exclaimed, sounding as if he’d been told the world were going to end if they couldn’t taste test nearly a dozen ice cream flavors that afternoon. 

Killian quirked an eyebrow at Emma, one side of his mouth tugging up and she couldn’t think when he did that. “That so?”  
  
“No one is forcing you try the chocolate ones,” Emma said. “You can just stick to boring vanilla or whatever you usually get.”  
  
“Frozen yogurt,” Henry muttered, starting another game and Emma resisted the urge to point out that he’d stopped playing Rainbow Road. “Hook gets frozen yogurt sometimes.”  
  
“A travesty.”  
  
“It’s sometimes considered healthier,” Killian argued, fingers still moving across Emma’s back and she was probably going to trip over the blanket whenever she actually did move into the kitchen. “How many chocolate flavors are there? Can you actually have too much chocolate flavors in this chocolate trek we’re apparently taking?”  
  
“No,” Emma and Roland said at the same time. 

Killian grinned. “And,” Emma added. “This is not just straight chocolate. That’s way too generic for what we’ve got planned, right, Rol?”  
  
Roland nodded enthusiastically. “We looked it up at Granny’s last night, K! There are…how many, Emma?”  
  
“Twenty-six.”  
  
“Right, right, there are twenty-six flavors with chocolate in them, but we’re only going to try the ones that have other stuff in them.”  
  
“Other stuff,” Killian echoed, eyes darting towards Emma and she nodded. Roland was still talking. Henry was texting – probably telling Will about the blanket fort. She hoped Will’s phone was on silent in court. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Roland continued, standing up on the couch now and balancing precariously until Killian reached his left hand forward to settle on his side. “Peanut butter and caramel and cookies!”  
  
“Ah, well, if there are cookies involved, then I get it.”  
  
Emma clicked her tongue. “Are you mocking the ice cream plan?” she asked. “This is all your fault, you know, you pick an apartment by a Häagen-Dazs and this is bound to happen fairly often.”  
  
She’d meant it, mostly, as a joke, and getting ice cream with kids that weren’t actually hers was something the Emma from only a few years ago would have balked at, but then she’d stumbled into all of this and Killian’s right hand hadn’t ever actually moved away from her back, twisted around her while he tried to make sure Roland didn’t break something when he inevitably fell off the couch. 

Their couch. 

Killian didn’t say anything, but his expression shifted slightly – softening or easing into something that left several of Emma’s organs struggling to function consistently. “I’ll accept responsibility for frequent ice cream adventures,” he said softly, and it felt bigger than that. 

It felt like promises and expectations and hope. 

They’d bought thrift-store books together on the off-chance that Henry and Roland were going to stay in the living room and might have been interested in the idea of making some kind of blanket fort. 

Together. 

“Does this mean we can get ice cream before we go to the party?” Roland asked, seemingly unconcerned with whatever it was Killian was doing with his face or Emma’s seeming inability to stop melting, metaphorically, in the middle of their living room. 

“Is it really a party?” Henry countered. 

Killian made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, neither an agreement nor an argument. It wasn’t really a party. It was...a gathering? That wasn’t really the right word either and maybe Emma should ask Killian what the right word would be, but he’d only  _ just _ started writing again and that was part of the reason for the gathering or whatever was happening later that night at Granny’s. 

The site was set to go live the next morning at – as Ariel put it,  _ nine o’clock eastern standard time on the dot or I’m going to riot _ – and it seemed like kismet or fate or something that the jury had reached a verdict at nearly eleven o’clock at night the night before. 

The story was going to lead the site. 

And it wasn’t  _ really _ a news story – couldn't’ be, not when Killian had testified and questioned about the status of his ribs and what happened to him in New Orleans – but it was some kind of op-ed that could only exist on a brand-new site with Killian Jones as its featured writer. 

At least that’s what his brand-new business cards said. 

And that story would drive traffic. 

It was going to work. 

“You’ve got to remember the deal, Rol,” Emma said, absolutely ignoring any conversational shifts. “No straight chocolate and no more than six choices because we’re not trying to actually gorge ourselves on ice cream before onion rings.”  
  
“But there were twenty-six flavors!”  
  
She shook her head and Killian’s fingers tightened slightly on the back of her shirt, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Neither could Emma, really. She still hadn’t gotten any coffee. 

“We had a deal, Rol,” Emma said, and Killian hummed in agreement, some kind not-quite-parenting tandem that was making her think all kinds of things she shouldn’t be before coffee or noon or verdict announcements. 

“But…”  
  
“Hey,” Killian cut. Henry chuckled under his breath, likely far too acquainted with _grown-up voice_. “Six different types of ice cream is a ridiculous amount of ice cream. I think you can deal with just getting six choices, right?”  
  
Roland deflated in a very seven-year-old type of way, mouth twisted in ice-cream based frustration and they’d definitely started downtown. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Can we still make pancakes though?”  
  
“How much can you possibly eat?”  
  
“We were waiting for Emma!”  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” she muttered, taking a step forward so Killian didn’t inadvertently dislocate his shoulder in an attempt to keep touching her. 

He shrugged. “It’s still early. And we weren’t really up for that long. We didn’t even finish that one Cup, right Henry?”   
  
“It’s because Hook decided the only way he could win was to cheat,” Henry grinned, grunting slightly when Roland leapt back towards him, a pretzel of limbs and  _ brother _ and even more domesticity. 

And Emma stood stock still behind the couch with a smile plastered on her face and a distinct lack of coffee and she was so goddamn happy she was positive she was going to get a toothache from it. 

No matter what anyone told her about downtown. 

“I did not cheat,” Killian argued, slinging his arm over Emma’s shoulder and brushing his lips over the top of her hair. Henry stuck his tongue out. “I took advantage of your distraction and seized an opportunity. There’s a difference.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Sounds like cheating to me,” Emma said, working another triumphant sound of Henry, but that might have just been because of another well-placed banana peel and his closest competitor spun out on the screen. 

“I’ve been outnumbered,” Killian mumbled. He leaned forward again, Emma moving with him, and muttered something to Roland about trying  _ not to kill your brother, please _ . “C’mon, Swan, there’s actually food in the kitchen that might ensure these two don’t destroy our entire apartment before noon.”   
  
Her whole body did something decidedly  _ stupid _ at that, melting or maybe falling through the floor and that might have just been her knees refusing to work again, but she managed to nod anyway and both Henry and Roland were far too preoccupied trash talking to notice any of that. 

Killian didn’t move his arm away from her shoulders when they walked the few steps to the kitchen and if the full pot was any indication, he hadn’t touched any of the coffee yet either. 

There was probably a reason for that. 

A sign or something. 

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, love,” Killian said suddenly, pulling her out of those thoughts and she wasn’t quite prepared for the worry on his face. 

“It’s not bad,” Emma said. And her mind, distracted as it was, still managed to realize that was the first time he’d called her  _ that _ since she’d wandered into the living room. She’d left the blanket out there. 

“No?”  
  
“No, why would it be?”  
  
Killian made a face, eyes widening slightly in disbelief and that felt like cheating too because his eyes were just so, absurdly blue. It was distracting. Or the opposite of distracting. At the same time. She was a disaster. 

An under-caffeinated disaster. 

An under-caffeinated, weirdly happy, surprisingly comfortable disaster. 

Who hadn’t tried to play a video game in her head since she’d only, technically, moved in officially. 

“You haven’t tried to actually drink any coffee yet,” Killian said, nodding towards the pot and it was probably going to just turn off on its own before either one of them even moved. 

“Neither have you.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I was getting destroyed in MarioKart.”    
  
“That was, like, almost painfully adorable, you know,” Emma said, the words falling out of her before she could realize she’d never actually used the phrase  _ painfully adorable _ before in her life. Killian stared at her like she’d just been replaced with a cyborg. 

“Yeah?” he asked and there was something just on the edge of the question that might have been hope or desire or another synonym she couldn’t think about while she was ignoring the coffee a few feet away from her. 

Emma nodded. “Hence the vaguely happy thoughts. Not in, like, a _you can fly_ kind of way though because that seems kind out of place, all things considered, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian repeated, but that wasn’t a question and it didn’t really matter one way or another when both his hands landed on her hips. “But I appreciate the start of that sentence.”  
  
“I’m just...happy?”  
  
“That was a question.”  
  
“It’s weird.”  
  
“It probably shouldn’t be.”  
  
“I mean, it’s getting decidedly less weird,” Emma admitted. “That’s where the painfully adorable kind of fits into it.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes and, somehow, managed to find a few inches of space in between them, taking a step forward and his feet brushed against hers. He was wearing socks. Emma wasn’t. That was probably a sign too. 

“You’ve lost me again,” he said softly. 

“I am just, ah, this is difficult, how do you just spout out all this ridiculously charming stuff all the time?”  
  
“Was that a compliment?”  
  
“I mean, maybe not in tone, but definitely in theory.”  
  
He laughed, head thrown back and eyes closed lightly and Emma’s heart fluttered, warmth sinking through every inch of her and down into her sockless feet and, at some point, she’d wrapped her arms around Killian’s waist, burrowing her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. 

“I love you,” Emma said quietly, but she didn’t stumble over the words or miss the way Killian’s eyes widened slightly when she pulled her head back up to stare at him. “And it didn’t...whatever they decide today, whatever happens, it doesn’t...that won’t make a difference.”  
  
“To?”  
  
“This?”  
  
“That’s another question, Swan.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah, I guess it is. This isn’t really my thing.”  
  
“It’s going alright so far, I think.”  
  
She let out a shaky laugh, backing up until her spine collided with the edge of the counter and they had a questionable amount of cabinet space, but not a lot of counter and she barely managed to balance herself when she hopped onto the linoleum or whatever it was. 

Emma licked her lips, some internal organ – her spleen maybe, that was gross – doing something ridiculous when she realized Killian’s eyes fell towards the movement and he’d shifted with her, stepping in between her legs without a word and there were kids in the living room. 

“I talked to Mary Margaret...” Emma mumbled, trying to keep the conversation on some sort of metaphorical track and Killian hummed, tugging her back towards the edge so he could kiss along her jaw. “God, you’re distracting.”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed, but he didn’t stop and his left hand found its way under the edge of her shirt, leaving goosebumps in his wake and breathing wasn’t really a priority anymore. 

She should probably buy more hair ties – the ones she had weren’t doing a very good job of holding her hair, but that might have been because of Killian’s fingers and there were goosebumps on the back of her neck as soon as his mouth landed on hers. 

They done this a lot. 

Kissed and  _ made out _ and then kissed some more and, well, Emma had a specific side of the bed for as long as they’d been doing any of this and there’d never really been a question of attraction. She was absurdly, ridiculously attracted to Killian Jones. 

Obviously. 

She jumped him in a hallway in Philadelphia. More than once. 

So, kissing wasn’t really the surprise. His seeming obsession at trying to map every single inch of her in the middle of the kitchen at some indeterminate time on a Friday morning wasn’t even, really, all that surprising. 

They were very good at all of this. 

But this, whatever they were doing in the kitchen with her legs wrapped around his and her heel digging into the back of his thigh and  _ whatever _ his hand was doing against the collar of his ancient t-shirt, was absolutely different. 

It was slower and that didn’t really make sense because time was, probably, still moving at the same rate it always did, but it felt like they were taking their time or something decidedly sentimental. 

Cautious wasn’t the right word either. They lived together. She was going to pay half the rent. Neither one of them had ever really been cautious, not when it came to this, at least. 

Emma had jumped him in Philadelphia for God’s sake. 

But this. 

_ God, this _ . 

It was like they were testing the idea of  _ indefinitely _ , edging a bit closer to happy and content and  _ settled _ – Killian’s fingers in her hair and wrapped lightly around the back of her neck and cautious still wasn’t the right word, but Emma was fairly certain if they did anymore one of them was just going to burst into flames. 

So, naturally, she moved. 

Emma pulled back slightly, Killian’s expression unreadable for half a moment until she felt herself smiling and his head moved slightly, tilting towards her and she probably would have been frustrated at the distinct lack of kissing if she hadn’t been the one to move in the first place.

Her hair was still twisted in between her fingers. 

And he definitely moved first. 

Emma rocked forward, halfway between sitting on the counter and standing in the minimal amount of space between them, dimly aware of MarioKart music in the background and demands for  _ food because we’re starving _ and there went cautious. 

She sighed against him, moving out of instinct and all the times they’d done  _ this _ and she really had been planning on talking in the kitchen, but then Killian stared at her like she was the goddamn center of the universe and it was difficult to stick to a schedule. 

“Hook,” Henry called and Killian groaned. That wasn’t helping anything. There were footsteps running towards them and it was a testament to the power of video games that neither one of the kids in the living room noticed what had been happening in the kitchen, far too preoccupied with defeating a computer-based foe to care about  _ meaningful _ makeouts. 

Henry skidded to a stop, throwing his hands up to brace himself when he nearly collided with Killian’s back, slightly out of breath and Emma winced when he dropped the controller he’d been holding. 

He didn’t, however, drop the phone he was holding. 

“Oh,” Henry muttered, eyes widening at the scene in front of him and Regina was never going to let either one of her kids come uptown again. 

They were absolutely horrible quasi-parents. They should really make breakfast. Emma would probably have to get off the counter for that. 

The phone in Henry’s hand started ringing. 

“What’s going on, kid?” Emma asked, glancing meaningfully at Killian when he shifted his weight between his feet, shoulders moving as he tried to actually take a deep breath. Her voice cracked.

Henry smiled knowingly, pulling his lips back behind his teeth and holding the phone out expectantly. “Your phone is ringing, Hook.”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian muttered, rolling his eyes and heaving his shoulders again as he twisted back towards Henry. “I got that. Thanks, kid.” He tugged the, apparently, offensive piece of technology out of Henry’s hand, prosthetic still resting on Emma’s thigh and Henry didn’t walk away like she expected him to. 

“It’s Elsa,” he explained, like that actually explained it and, well, it kind of did. “And that’s not the first time she called.”  
  
“This is the first time you’ve shown up in the kitchen though,” Emma mumbled and Henry shrugged. Killian was already talking. 

“Shit,” he breathed, grimacing when Henry chuckled in a decidedly non-twelve-year-old kind of way. “Don’t tell your mom about that either.”  
  
“We should make some kind of list about what we’re hiding from your mom,” Emma added. She hopped off the counter, tugging Henry back against her side and resting her cheek on the top of his head. 

“She’s said way worse when she’s talking about Hook,” Henry promised. “It’s ok. But maybe we don’t mention the ice cream thing.”  
  
“Yeah, deal.”  
  
Killian was talking to Elsa again, eyebrows pinched together and head tilted slightly. His breathing wasn’t quite as even anymore. And he might have laughed. 

Emma heard voices on the other end of the phone – Ruby’s voice almost perfectly audible despite the nearly one-hundred blocks separating their apartment and that courthouse downtown. “Speaker,” she shouted, a third voice that was, probably, Mary Margaret chastising her softly in the background. “Am I on speaker yet, Jones?”  
  
“You are on speaker, Lucas,” Killian said, leaning back against the counter and Emma’s fingers found their way back into the bottom of his hair. 

“Is Emma there?”  
  
“In our apartment? At...what time is it?”  
  
“Oh my God, you’re an asshole. Oh, shit, are there kids in the vicinity?”  
  
“Hey, Ruby,” Henry called, grinning like they’d already eaten every flavor of ice cream the Häagen-Dazs down the block offered. “Are you guys done with court already?”  
  
“Technically, we weren’t the ones doing anything with court,” Anna added, Ruby not-so-quietly grumbling when she lost control of the conversation. “Not really, at least. And it was super simple.”  
  
Someone clicked their tongue – probably David – and Emma rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, Henry still smiling and her fingers tracing against Killian’s neck and Elsa had probably already told him what happened. 

“It’s done, Em,” Elsa said simply, and her fingers stilled.

“He’s done,” Ruby corrected, and both of those sighs in the background were absolutely Mary Margaret and David. 

Emma bit her lip, glancing towards Killian. He smiled. “They're thinking fifteen to twenty-five, after they add everything up,” he said. “Successive.”  
  
“Successive,” Emma repeated and Killian nodded. Ruby started yelling again. 

“You should have seen him, Em. It was like his whole body lost all the blood and he was some kind of crime-committing ghost who could just be a total bastard, don’t listen to that Henry. Anyway, they got him on six. Total.”  
  
“Six?”  
  
“Em, you’ve got to stop just repeating everything I’m saying.”  
  
She shook her head, blinking quickly and she still hadn’t actually gotten any coffee. She wasn’t convinced she wasn’t just going into un-caffeinated shock. The phone changed hands again and they must have made it outside because she could hear cabs and people and tourists and someone, very loudly, noticed Ruby. 

And then, suddenly, the noises weren’t quite as loud and Killian kissed the side of her head quickly, muttering something to Henry and tugging him out of the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Mary Margaret said when Emma pulled the phone up to her ear. “It’s just us now.”  
  
“Hey, Em,” David added, that quiet certainty in his voice that had changed everything more than a decade ago. 

Emma licked her lips again. “Hi,” she mumbled, sliding down the front of the counter and their floor was incredibly clean. “So, uh, that’s that then?”   
  
David must have nodded because she could hear Mary Margaret scoff softly under her breath when neither one of them answered immediately. “They said fifteen to twenty-five,” Mary Margaret said. “But, uh, well…”    
  
“The DA thinks they’ll lean more towards twenty-five at sentencing,” David finished. “New Orleans was kind of the kicker.”    
  
“The kicker,” Emma parroted, and Ruby was probably sighing dramatically somewhere, just  _ knowing _ she kept repeating things. 

“Absolutely. They couldn’t actually get him on assault, since, you know, he wasn’t the one throwing punches or driving cars, but everything else. The betting and the bribing and the conspiracy. All of it.”  
  
Emma let out a breath – not quite sure when she’d actually stopped breathing and she kind of expected herself to feel  _ more _ . She didn’t feel anything, really. 

She felt like she wanted to taste test several different types of caramel-based ice creams and then eat a questionable amount of onion rings. 

“Em,” David prompted and she hummed in response. “You ok?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said, quickly and easily and honestly. She was fine. She was...home. 

“The lackey...Felix whatever his name is is going to get sentenced in a couple of days. And then there’s Wesselton and Helm and, ah shit, Zelena too, but she’s kind of the simplest of the bunch. Neal’ll be back next week and, well, twenty-five. For sure, Em.”   
  
“And Gold?”    
  
David hissed and Emma could almost see Mary Margaret’s encouraging smile when he inevitably glanced her direction. “They’ll start next week. Probably after they sentence Neal. The DA…”    
  
“Ah,” Emma interrupted. “Wanted the spotlight solely for the big fish, huh?”    
  
“Something like that. You want us to come up there?”

Emma started to shake her head, but Mary Margaret answered for her instead. “She’s got ice cream plans,” she laughed, and Emma jumped back into _feelings_ so quickly she was practically drowning in them. “You tell him yet?”  
  
“I was getting there,” Emma said. “Stuff happened.”  
  
“Good stuff?”  
  
“Mary Margaret!”  
  
David sounded like he was choking – or trying to run into traffic to avoid hearing the rest of this conversation. Mary Margaret just laughed. So did Ruby who, apparently, was done being excluded from the conversation. 

“You should really tell him, Em,” she shouted, and Emma rolled her eyes again, pointedly ignore the creak of the couch a few feet away. “Hey, you hear anything else yet? Not to do with your news or our news or whatever? Just stuff?”

“You are so painfully unsubtle it’s almost impossible,” Emma said. “I will see you guys later. Like later. Later. And Rol thinks we should stream later.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure he does.”  
  
“That sound all-knowing, but I’m not going to bite because I’ve got to actually drink some coffee at some point this morning.”  
  
Emma wasn’t sure who yelled loudest. “Wait, you haven’t had any coffee yet?”

“No, bye. Don’t call me again.”   
  
She sighed at the immediate objections and questions and it sounded like Scarlet was screaming something about  _ best man _ , but Emma absolutely could not deal with that before coffee and she could hear footsteps again. 

There wasn’t really more than a small jut of wall separating the kitchen and the living room, but Killian paused in between the spaces anyway, arms crossed lightly over his chest and gaze just on the wrong side of concerned. 

“I’m fine,” Emma said before he could ask, but she was still sitting on the floor, so maybe that wasn’t a very good argument. 

“Your flailed out limbs would suggest otherwise.”   
  
She laughed softly and she probably shouldn’t have been surprised when he just dropped down next to her, but she was only  _ just _ getting used to this whole, domestic, settled thing, so that was a bit of a work in progress. 

“I didn’t care,” Emma said, and Killian lifted his eyebrows in confusion. “About court dates or sentencing and that didn’t really happen today, but when it does I won’t care about that either and I’m just...happy.”  
  
Killian shifted slightly, tugging her legs back over his so he could pull her flush against his side and Emma fully expected him to kiss the top of her head. He did. Her pulse sped up anyway. “Yeah, I am too, love,” he said softly and it felt bigger and more important than any other sentence and he was very good at coming up with sentences. 

The site was going to make a shit ton of money. 

She didn’t say that out loud. That probably would have ruined the  _ romance _ of the moment. 

“Good, that’s good,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and he kissed her again. Henry and Roland were probably going to mutiny if they didn’t get fed soon. 

“And I wouldn’t care either,” Killian added. 

“Wait, what?”   
  
“Whatever happens with Gold...I…” He shrugged, the lopsided smile on his face doing something to Emma’s ability  _ not  _ to plot out their entire future and she hadn’t really been ignoring those thoughts, but now she had a bit of a plan and a job and the site was going to launch the next day. 

There could  _ be _ a plan – and that was the first time that had ever really happened. 

“He’s going to go to jail,” Killian continued. “They all are. And they could get out on good behavior in two months or two days and it wouldn’t matter. But it’s over. The whole crazy, insane mess. So, whatever happens next, I’m happy, Emma. And this is...it’s more than I could have hoped it would be.”

She took a deep breath, shaky and uneven and she  _ felt _ all of that. “You stole my vaguely romantic, slightly charming speech,” Emma accused and Killian’s answering laugh seemed to settle into every inch of her. 

There was that word again. 

“We could make out on the kitchen floor instead,” Killian suggested, grabbing her hand before she could actually smack against his shoulders and she might have actually shivered when he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “And I love you too, we never got around to that part before.”  
  
“Charmer.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“Guys,” Henry whined from the couch, drawing out the word until it sounded like he was reciting the entire Constitution. “Can we eat, please? It’s been eight-hundred years.”  
  
“You hear that, Swan?” Killian asked and the smile was _stupid_. She didn’t say that either. “We’ve apparently been awake for eight-hundred years.”  
  
Emma shook her head. “You are honestly the worst kind of adult supervision.” Henry and Roland moved into the kitchen, controllers in both of their hands and put-upon looks on their faces like they’d really gotten the short of the end the metaphorical stick after blanket forts and ice cream plans. “Pancakes?” Emma asked and both of the kids nodded enthusiastically. “C’mon, then, let’s make food.”  
  
It took far longer than it probably should have to make an acceptable amount of edible pancakes – Emma’s cheeks streaked with flour and handprints on Killian’s back and there were chocolate chip stains in the corners of both Henry and Roland’s lips, handfuls stolen and ignored by the so-called adults in the kitchen. 

And they ate more ice cream than Emma had agreed to, losing out to the painfully adorable again and Roland Locksley’s dimples. 

And they were late to Granny’s, weaving their way through Friday night tourists to reach the stairs and the telltale signs of MarioKart in that tiny party room that never seemed to host anyone except their small group. 

“Hey,” Ruby shouted at Emma as soon as she walked into the room. “Spoiler alert, even after, you know, saving the world or whatever, your brother still absolutely sucks at MarioKart. Henry, you want to come here and help me wreck him?   
  
Henry nodded enthusiastically, practically sprinting towards the open chair next to Ruby and Roland was already recounting  _ ice cream extravaganza 2.0 _ to Regina. Who might have actually smiled in response. 

She probably shouldn’t have had so much wine, but it was some kind of celebration – Anna dubbing it the  _ We Didn’t Win Millions, but the Bad Guys are Going to Jail and Justice Prevailed and, oh, Plus the New Site’s going to Make a Shit Ton of Money _ party. It was a very wordy title. 

So Emma drank every glass that was handed to her and won every MarioKart raced she played and her cheeks were starting to cramp up by the time Ruby announced  _ we’re going to stream and make a shit ton of money, ignore that last part anyone under the age of fifteen. _

“You probably could have just said younger than thirteen,” David pointed out, and Ruby made a wholly inappropriate gesture in response. 

“You suck at MarioKart, we're not letting you on our stream,” she said, pushing on his shoulder like that would get him to move and maybe all of them were a little drunk. Granny just kept bringing them more alcohol. 

“I didn’t want to be on your stream.”   
  
“He can’t be on your stream,” Mary Margaret corrected, her own glass in one hand her steps weren’t quite certain when she tried to share a seat with Emma. “Move over, like, half an inch.”    
  
“I will fall off this chair,” Emma hissed, but Mary Margaret didn’t stop and she was half a moment from just resigning herself to her fate on the floor, until, suddenly, there was an arm around her waist and she was moving and still sitting and there was a very solid  _ something _ pressed up against her back. 

“Hi, love,” Killian mumbled against her neck and she could feel the smile there, his breath against her skin and she was far too drunk for any of that. 

David looked decidedly unamused. 

“You probably shouldn’t be on the stream either,” Emma said. That wasn’t what she was planning on saying. She wasn’t sure what she  _ was _ planning on saying, but it was probably focused more on whatever he was doing with his mouth and, at least, ten different people would have groaned loudly if she started kissing him  _ while _ sitting on his leg. 

“Too late,” Ruby said, waving her hands towards the camera Emma hadn’t noticed she’d turned on. “Hi, Internet! We’re back and not streaming at our scheduled times because we are celebrating and so we’re going to play MarioKart and you can do whatever you want with that and…”  
  
She trailed off, eyes going wide and Emma nearly fell on the floor again. There was a name on the screen in the comments feed – and it might have been the last name she expected to see. 

_ Henry Daniel _ . 

“What the hell?” David asked, glancing around the room like they were on some hidden camera show. They weren’t. 

Henry took a cautious step forward, lip twisted in between his teeth and one thumb wrapped around his belt look and  _ that _ was  _ all _ Killian and Emma was still sitting on Killian’s legs and she couldn't’ really breathe. 

The room was spinning. 

And she could still see the message even when she closed her eyes –  _ It’s not three million, but there is some money to this no-money party _ . 

“So, uh….” Henry started, stumbling over the four letters in a very un-Henry kind of way. “I might have done something.”  
  
Emma opened her eyes. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Uh...so, you know how you guys couldn’t get the money because of the fraud and all that bad stuff I’m not supposed to know about?” Emma nodded, Killian shaking with not-so-silently laughter behind her. Regina glared at him. “So, well, you guys weren’t going to get the money and you totally should have won and,” Henry paused to take a deep breath, “so, uh….I talked to Mom and Robin and we came up with a plan and, well, it’s, like, thirteen-thousand dollars.”

Emma didn’t fall off the chair. She didn’t really move. She couldn’t really breathe. Henry almost smiled – it didn’t really work. “What?” she whispered, and Mary Margaret had started crying at some point. 

“Thirteen-thousand dollars,” Henry repeated. “From a kickstarter. That Ariel helped me set up. Anna promo’ed it on her stream and Uncle Will told all his photo friends and uh...I mean, it’s not three million, but the stories were my idea and that’s why all this happened, right?”  
  
The room froze. Or, at least, most of it did. Emma stood up, crossing the space between her and Henry quickly and she bent down until she was in his eye line, one hand cupping his cheek and maybe she’d started crying at some point. 

“No, kid,” she said intently, and Anna was practically weeping. “That’s not...you did a good thing here. You brought all these people together.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. And you’re way better at MarioKart than any of us.”

Henry leapt at her, nearly knocking Emma back on her heels, but there were two hands on her back and both David and Killian had moved. Probably at the same time. It had been that kind of day. 

“I just thought I could help or something,” Henry mumbled into her hair. “I know it’s not a ton…”  
  
Emma didn’t shake her head – certain she’d just manage to hit Henry if she did – but she might have held on a little tighter and David squeezed her shoulder. “Yes it is,” she said and the entire goddamn room was crying. 

“I’m totally putting this in my speech,” Will said and all of this had all been on the stream. God, they were going to become some kind of meme. 

That’d probably be good for traffic. 

They played MarioKart on the stream and got more donations and more comments and Henry was, suddenly, some kind of internet celebrity that would probably change the way school went when he actually went back to school on Monday and Mary Margaret never really stopped crying.

And it was everything the last thing at Granny’s hadn’t been – easy and simply and  _ happy _ and Emma didn’t even make fun of the way Killian threw his arm out to hail a cab, his left arm never moving away from her waist. 

She nearly fell asleep in the cab, drifting in and out of comfortable silence and whatever his fingers were doing against her arm when she curled up against his side.  “We’re here, love,” Killian said, rolling his shoulder to get her to sit up and he’d already paid, the door open and his leg halfway onto the curb. 

They worked their way upstairs slowly, Emma leaning on Killian more than she was actually standing and she was vaguely aware of how bad that probably was for his ribs. He didn’t argue it once, just kept muttering in her ear, words she could barely make out and some of them might have been  _ I love you _ several times. 

She hoped they were. 

He didn’t say anything when she toed out of her shoes, just tugged her back down the hallway and back into bed, trailing kisses across her cheek and the side of her neck and Emma was a bit more awake than she’d been in the cab. 

“Too many clothes,” she muttered, tugging on the bottom of Killian’s shirt and the top of his jeans and he only had one shoe off. It was somewhere in the hallway. 

Killian shook his head, pulling back slightly and Emma couldn’t come up with a single word to describe the look on his face. Like he’d come up with a plan of his own and had, maybe, settled into all of this too. 

She hoped so. 

“I have a question,” he said, smiling at her like he’d come up with a particularly well-crafted lede. 

“Do I get my follow-up?”  
  
“If you want.”

“Those are the rules, counselor.”  
  
He moved his eyebrows, gaze far too blue to be anything but overwhelming in some kind of indefinite type of way. “What did you tell Mary Margaret?” Killian asked. 

“That’s your question? Honestly?”  
  
“I’ve been curious all day. And Ruby asked me if I heard any late-breaking news before we left Granny’s.”  
  
“Ruby is the worst.”  
  
“Anna and Elsa mentioned plans. Tink didn’t say anything, but there might have been a thumbs up at some point. At first I thought that was just because I managed to beat your brother at that one race, but…”  
  
“You’re really bad at MarioKart,” Emma finished, grinning in spite of the nerves in the pit of her stomach. “I was going to tell you before, but Mary Margaret apparently can’t keep a secret to save her life and, well, I’m going back to school.”

He stared at her like she’d already graduated or wasn’t nearly thirty and planning on taking GED classes and, hopefully, moving to a bed eventually and then he kissed her – everything she’d felt in the last twenty-four hours poured into one move and her shirt wasn’t much of a shirt anymore as a very frustrating piece of cotton that Killian seemed half a moment away from just ripping in half. 

“I just…” Emma continued, happy to find she was still breathing normally. “I don’t want to run anymore. I want to pay rent and go to school and have homework and this stream is going to work and the site is going to work and I’m…”  
  
“Happy?”  
  
She nodded. “You stole my question.”  
  
Killian kissed her again. And that might have been a better answer than an actual answer, particularly when they finally figured out how to get out of some of those clothes. 

He told her he loved her, at least, nine more times before she actually did fall asleep and whatever happened next, Emma knew they were both ready for it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got one more chapter of the epilogue-type variety next week. Both POVs! A time jump! Stuff! Important stuff! As always, I can't thank you guys enough for clicking and reading and being generally fantastic about this story. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


	35. Chapter 35

_One year later_

“This is ridiculous.”  
  
“It’s nice.”   
  
Emma rolled her whole head, flopping back dramatically across the bed until her hair hit the floor and maybe she was the one acting ridiculous. Probably. Maybe they should skip the whole thing all together.

She couldn’t quite believe that there even _was_ a thing, was fairly certain the city of New York had better things to do than stage some kind of quasi graduation ceremony for its GED students, but apparently that was the wrong assumption to make because not only was there some kind of graduation ceremony, there was, now, also a post-graduation party and Mary Margaret had been baking for _days_ and Anna kept whispering about _decorations_ and _themes_ and it had somehow become a joint thing for Emma and Henry.

Henry graduated middle school the week before.

Emma was more apt to celebrate that.

She really didn’t want to go to this thing – sitting by herself in some kind of polyester monstrosity next to people she didn’t actually know because it was a GED class and she wasn’t really making best friends in classes that only met three times a week.

“Swan,” Killian said, climbing next to her and she made some kind of ridiculous noise in the back of her throat when she curled up against his side. Her hair was still hanging off the side of the bed. “This is a good thing, love.”  
  
“This is an annoying thing. At best. It’s going to take forever.”   
  
“It’s going to take an hour, tops. There’s not even a speaker.”   
  
“Which just goes to show what a load of crap it is. This is a chance for the city to brag about how much it’s changing people’s lives or some other ridiculous PR-approved schlop and we should go do anything else instead.”   
  
He laughed against her, tightening his arm and dragging his fingers over the line of her spine and that wasn’t doing anything to make her want to go to a graduation that, Emma was fairly certain, was just a media stunt and, really, Killian should have realized that too.

As the more media-savvy side of the relationship.

Or whatever.

She clearly wasn’t cut out to be a high school graduate. And Ruby kept talking about streaming the ceremony and maybe that’s what Emma was most concerned about.

Well, no, not the streaming per se – which was going almost _too_ well and they were making money and they were vaguely popular on the internet, which was a very strange phrase to use in real life, but it was true and it was good and working and Emma usually wasn’t this pessimistic.

It was some kind of picture-perfect snapshot of domesticity. At least most of the time.

There were moments – frustrations and arguments and muttered words that weren’t actually supposed to be said out loud. He hated that she had a tendency to leave her shoes just inside the door and she hated that he could never seem to remember to fold up the blanket at the edge of the bed, but her hair ties still somehow found their way into the pockets of his jeans and his leather jacket and she smiled every time she opened up the goddamn closet.

The moments never really lasted long.

He’d kiss her or she’d kiss him or one of them would find the _most ridiculous_ recipe they could in some weird corner of the internet and the moments usually shifted after that.

And then there’d, usually, be more kissing.

And it hadn’t always been easy. There were those moments too.

The site struggled the first few months – even with op-eds and stories and Regina’s connections and Gold hadn’t gotten nearly everything he should have. He’d let Neal take the fall, more or less handing over those twenty-five years without an ounce of regret. Even Hans the sleazy lawyer got a worse sentence than Gold.

Robert Gold, face of New York City and the goddamn biggest bastard on Earth, got ten years, in a medium-security prison upstate, and a high possibility for parole.

They hadn’t gotten drunk that night – despite Ruby’s best efforts to, as she put it, _screw the asshole, by outdrinking everyone in the Tri-State area_ – just went home and Killian muttered something about Emma being _warm_ and he fell asleep with his head on her shoulder.

She was just, like, absurdly happy.

Like a solid ninety-nine percent of the time she was awake and cognizant.

And she knew Mary Margaret made those cookies she was obsessed with for this party thing and Will mentioned that Henry and Roland were making a sign and all of them were going to be there and Ariel kept trying to guess how many times David would cry during the graduation ceremony.

It wasn’t really a graduation ceremony.

It was a PR stunt. For the city. And David was probably going to cry, at least, three times and then do that thing where he puffed out his chest and rolled his shoulders back and Ruth was coming too.

“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” Killian asked, the words mumbled just a bit when he spoke mostly into her hair.

Emma hummed, trying to change the subject to anything that wasn’t actually talking about this, but he was some kind of mind reader and she was some kind of perpetually open book and it didn’t really matter what kind of noise she made, Killian knew what she meant.

“Ruth’s flying in,” Emma muttered. “M’s texted me and David went out to LaGuardia and he totally used a squad car because he wasn’t going to pay for an Uber to Queens and they’re…”  
  
“They want to, Swan.”   
  
She sighed dramatically, burrowing even further into his neck and she was fairly certain she felt his lips brush over the top of her hair. Her not-quite graduation robes were draped over the end of the bed, half an inch from getting kicked off and that felt like a sign.

Emma wasn’t sure she was looking for a sign, but it seemed to be there anyway and she hadn’t actually _said_ anything yet.

God, she was going to kill Ruby. She was all in her head.

And maybe Scarlet hadn’t only mumbled about Henry and Roland’s arts and crafts attempts. Maybe Scarlet was getting impatient.

“Emma, love, I can hear you thinking,” Killian said, tightening his arm again and she grumbled into his chest. He laughed softly and there was absolutely a kiss that time and a particular type of smile that made her pulse speed up and her heart try to work its way out her chest.

“That’s stupid,” Emma mumbled.

“Ah, well, that’s disappointing. What’s the matter? Honestly. It can’t be about this graduation thing.”  
  
“Stop calling it a graduation thing. You’re giving it far too much credit.”   
  
He pulled back slightly and Emma was half a breath away from grumbling at that as well – it seemed to be a trend for the day – when she noticed the look on his face, a pinch between his eyebrows and a very specific set to his mouth and she could almost see the line of tension running between his shoulder blades.

“What’s the matter?” Emma asked, worry sinking into the pit of her stomach and possibly pulling her through the bed and maybe he knew.

Maybe he knew and he was mad.

No, that was insane. Agh, that word. It was fine. Everything was fine. God, he looked worried.

“I’m not giving you enough credit, Swan,” Killian said, and that might have been the last thing she expected. It was probably good she was still laying down.

The room kind of felt like it was spinning.

And she couldn’t think when he looked at her like that – all serious and determined and like he _believed_. In her. Or something decidedly sentimental and domestic and her mind was moving a hundred miles a minute, playing a game Emma wasn’t sure she knew the rules to.

That metaphor didn’t even make any sense.

Maybe if they blew off the not-quite-ceremony she could get some answers.

She was really bad at asking questions.

“That’s stupid too,” Emma muttered, ducking her eyes and staring at the still-unfolded blanket she’d collapsed on top of a few minutes before. “And I realize how stupid my constant use of the word stupid sounds. I’m just…”  
  
“I’m proud of you,” Killian cut in, and Emma jerked her head up so quickly she was positive she’d done permanent damage to her neck and possibly her entire spine. Her heart probably wasn’t supposed to beat that quickly.

Or loudly.

It sounded like it was ricocheting off the walls or maybe that was just the buzzing in Emma’s ears and she could barely hear the traffic outside or the sound of her phone. Ruth must have just landed.

The tips of Killian’s ears were red.

“What?” Emma breathed and, ah, shit, she was going to cry more than anyone else. And they hadn’t even left the apartment yet.

He couldn’t really shrug when he was still on his side and his arm hadn’t actually moved, fingers still tracing across her shirt and she should probably put on a dress at some point. Maybe. If they ever got off the bed.

She could see the muscles in his throat move when he swallowed and his fingers stopped tracing up her spine long enough to tap quickly on the small of her back, nervous energy practically working _into_ Emma and they should totally blow off everything else they had to do for the rest of the day and get into the bed.

“Proud,” Killian repeated, but his voice was a bit scratchier than usual and it must have been difficult to talk when he barely seemed to move his lips. “Of you. A fairly ridiculous amount.”  
  
“Is that the right word in that context?”   
  
“Probably not.”   
  
Emma let out a slightly shaky, slightly swooning laugh, teeth finding her lower lip until she’d pulled the whole thing into her mouth and her own cheeks were probably tinged a bit red.

“We’ll let it slide this time,” she said softly, pulling herself up until she could actually kiss him without doing any more damage to her neck and she didn’t realize she’d moved on top of him until she felt his hand on her waist and he made some kind of strangled noise that shot straight through her.

They were very good at this.

Even if they were laying the wrong way on the bed – Killian was nearly falling off the edge and the blanket was twisted up into what felt like several different knots under Emma’s knee and she tried to ignore both of those things when she rolled her hips the way she knew would work _that_ sound of him again and she smiled when it did.

“Ha,” she muttered triumphantly, like she was actually playing a game and Killian might have laughed, but it turned into something else entirely and if they didn’t move someone was going to show up at their apartment and drag both of them downtown.

That probably would have been weird.

“Swan, did you just say _ha_ while you were on top of me?” Killian asked incredulously, but the tension seemed to have fallen out of his shoulders and possibly over the side of the bed and Emma just nodded when his fingers moved under her shirt.

She moved again, ducking her head, but he didn’t seem all that interested in anything that wasn’t actually kissing her. And doing that thing with his tongue.

Fuck.

Killian laughed again and maybe Emma had actually said that out loud. He grinned at her, hair a righteous mess from her fingers and her misplaced attempts to find something to hold onto and someone’s phone was ringing.

“God, they’re impatient,” Killian sighed. Emma’s shirt was some kind of cotton-based lost cause.

She made a noise, frustration or just generic _disgruntled’ness_ and that wasn’t a word, she knew it wasn’t a word – she was, almost, a high school graduate after all. “Stop talking,” she said, but it came out a bit more like a demand and he hummed in agreement, eyes flashing and lips tilting up slightly.

He flipped her. And Emma made another noise, a gasp or the general embodiment of _swooning_ in audible form, breath catching when she felt Killian’s teeth graze across her collarbone and maybe cotton t-shirts weren’t that bad when they let him do that.

“Jeez, you can’t do that,” she muttered, but there wasn’t really much fight in it and she wasn’t entirely sure what she do if he actually did stop.

“Why?” Killian asked. He didn’t stop, just mouthed the words against her skin and his arm couldn’t have been very comfortable, twisted up as it was under her back, but he didn’t complain about that either and Emma’s shirt was halfway up her stomach.

“I honestly have no idea. I’ve lost complete control of this conversation.”

He chuckled against her, the feel of his smile obvious and everything seemed to slow for half a second, settling into something a little calmer and a little less frantic and it didn’t help her pulse at all.

“It’s because you were leveling up on the charming,” Emma accused, and Killian laughed again, the sound making her think all sorts of future-type things and plan-type things and she was still a bit hung up on that whole _pride_ thing.

“Honest, love, there’s absolutely a difference.”  
  
“Ah, well, it got you bonus points or something in whatever analogy we’re using here,”   
  
“This is your analogy, Swan. I’m just along for the ride, so to speak.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, doing her best to actually scowl, but it didn’t really work when he just smirked at her and did something ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Oh, that one was bad,” she laughed. Killian didn’t even try to disagree. “And we don’t have time.”   
  
“I’m a bit disappointed in your lack of faith there.”   
  
“It’s not a matter of faith, it’s a matter of the Earth rotating around the sun.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Isn’t that how time works?”

“I really have no idea,” Killian admitted. He hadn’t actually moved off her, settled in between her legs and she grinned triumphantly when he hissed as soon as her foot wrapped around his calf.   
  
“If I say ‘ha’ right now, is that no good because I’m just repeating myself?” Emma asked, pressing her tongue to the corner of her lips when Killian’s eyes fell towards her mouth. He groaned. “Because I feel like another ‘ha’ is almost appropriate right now.”

Killian shook his head and it looked like he was trying to take a deep breath, shoulders moving again and eyes closed lightly, but his teeth dug into his lip when Emma’s hand shifted slightly, tracing over his side and the top button of his jeans. “That’s, uh…” he started and Emma grinned like they’d figured out a way to get out of a graduation ceremony and post-graduation party and her phone was ringing again.

“Symmetrical,” she suggested. “A solid call-back to earlier parts of this conversation? Proof that I’m definitely the smartest person you know?”  
  
He definitely wasn’t breathing evenly. She wasn’t really either.

“All of the above,” Killian muttered, tugging tightly enough on the bottom of her shirt that Emma wouldn’t have been surprised to hear it rip in half. “You have to take this off, Swan.”  
  
“I thought we agreed about the sun.”   
  
“In the sense that neither one of us knew about the time-telling tendencies of the sun, but that makes sense, right? Sailors or something.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“Sundials.”   
  
“You’re just saying words.”   
  
“I promise, I’m not,” Killian said and he was still trying to rip her shirt in half, but Emma was so goddamn _charmed_ by all of it and mostly him, that she barely even noticed. “There really is a point to all of this and it’ll make sense eventually.”   
  
“What will?”   
  
“The point.”   
  
“About the sun?”   
  
Killian hummed, making some kind of entirely unfair noise when Emma arched up and, between the two of them, they finally got the shirt off, a streak of cotton tossed over her head that landed, at least, several feet away from the hamper.

“You’re going to be frustrated by that later,” Emma said, but Killian just widened his eyes meaningfully and she got the distinct impressions she was missing something. She stopped worrying about that as soon as his hand moved again and she did eventually change into that dress, but that was mostly because she’d managed to get out of all her other clothes in near-record time.

And they weren’t even late.

They were the first ones there – standing in the lobby of some building that Killian knew the name of and was, apparently, very historic and Emma tried to make some joke about it being on _Gossip Girl_ as well.

“This is some kind of miracle,” Emma said, pulling self-consciously on the actual cap they’d given them all to wear. “And I look like an idiot. I don’t understand why I have to wear this.”

Killian glanced at her, something flashing across his face that set off a slew of _other_ thoughts in the back corner of Emma’s and she was _absolutely_ missing something. But she wasn’t really telling him everything, either, so by comparison…

“So, you can throw it, Swan,” he said, not for the first time that afternoon. “There are traditions.”  
  
“Screw traditions.”   
  
He made another face – something that looked like...trepidation or another word she couldn’t think of and Emma narrowed her eyes. “Seriously, what’s going on with you?” she asked, pulling lightly on the tie she’d told him he absolutely did not have to wear.

He’d told her he wanted to.

“Nothing,” Killian answered quickly. Too quickly.

“You’re really, really bad at being an even remotely good liar.”  
  
“That’s a confusing sentence, Swan.”   
  
Emma nodded, pressing up on her toes and she’d resolutely refused to wear heels because her actual face was on the internet quite a bit and she didn’t need for any corner of the internet to see her trip across the stage in a ceremony she didn’t want to be at.

While wearing polyester. And a cap.

Killian moved his hands to her hips, but he was standing straight as a rail and that tension was back in between her shoulders and, well, that was frustrating. She was fairly certain they’d gotten rid of _that_ when they’d raced against time or something less absurd sounding.

“Nothing,” he said again, tilting his head like that would make the lie sound less like a lie.

“Yuh huh.”  
  
The door the lobby had been open the whole time and Emma was dimly aware of other students and families and camera shutters and she dropped back on her heels when she heard her name.

And Ruth had already won the _who will cry first_ lottery.

“She was crying when she got off the plane,” David mumbled, throwing a knowing smile Emma’s direction. “Were we supposed to wear ties? Is there a dress code?”  
  
“No,” Emma shook her head. “There is no dress code. This is not a real thing. Killian is just…”   
  
“Giving you a hickey,” Ruby finished, barely getting the word out through the force of her laughter and Ruth sniffled loudly.

“What?”

Ruby nodded seriously, pointing one finger towards Emma’s neck and Killian’s ears were red again. Anna made a noise that might have been an agreement, pushing Emma’s hair off her shoulder and, apparently, trying to grow several inches to brush her fingers over the mark and it was, easily, the most absurd thing that had happened in the last year.

Or it was as soon as Will joined the whole lot of them, lifting Anna up slightly and she held her hand out expectantly, a bottle of concealer landing in her palm.

“What the hell is going on right now?” Emma demanded. Killian suddenly seemed very interested with the ground. “And why do you have that?”  
  
“It’s El's,” Anna explained, shrugging slightly and Will mumbled _hold still_ under his breath.

“That’s not a normal answer.”  
  
“Emma, seriously, you can’t move or I’m going to get concealer in your eye.”   
  
She exhaled loudly – more a sigh than any actual movement of air – glancing cautiously at Ruth who was still crying, but might have also been smiling and Mary Margaret looked like she was watching some kind of miracle.

Mary Margaret absolutely knew _something_. And Emma’s graduation cap had fallen on the ground.

The door swung open again and there was more talking and yelling and sprinting footsteps – a very solid force colliding with Killian’s side, finally getting him to move when he tugged Roland up and nearly got hit in the face with a sign.

“Hi, Emma,” Roland yelled, trying to twist the sign in between them and the letters didn’t all fit on the piece of poster board, getting progressively smaller from left to right.

Emma smiled and Anna announced she was _done_ . “Hey, Rol,” she said. “Thanks for the sign.”   
  
He beamed at her, kneeing Killian in the side when he tried to move again and, apparently, Robin was going to take pictures all afternoon, thumb nearly pushing through his phone screen as he ignored Will’s suggestions completely. “What’s going on here, right now?” Robin asked when he finally looked up at them and his eyes narrowed as soon as they fell on Killian. “Hook? You ok?”   
  
Killian nodded, but Emma noticed Robin’s gaze flicker towards Will. He shrugged, grabbing his phone and snapping no less than twenty-six photos in two seconds.

“Should we, uh, go get seats or something?” Mary Margaret asked, one arm around Henry and an encouraging smile on her face. She looked at Killian too.

_Something was going on_.

“There aren’t assigned seats because this is not a real thing,” Emma said. “So you guys might all have to beat down to sit next to each other, small army that we are.”  
  
“I think we can hold our own,” Ruby promised. “After all, we did just deal with hickey-gate in record time, so you know, a fight for seats is, like, nothing.”   
  
“Oh my God, do not call it that.”   
  
“Too late!”

Ruby was gone as soon as the words were out of her mouth, tugging Anna and Elsa with her and the echo of her laugh would probably linger in the back corner of Emma’s mind for the rest of her life or something.

She hoped the cover up lasted throughout the whole stupid ceremony.

Killian was still holding Roland and his ears were still tinged red, but he looked straight at Emma when the rest of them were gone, a nervous smile on his face that she couldn't quite remember ever seeing. And that didn’t make any sense.

There was nothing to be nervous about.

Right? No, it was fine. And they hadn’t even decided if they were going to go. They probably weren’t going to go. There was travel and _stuff_ and a whole other plan and things were fine as they were.

The site was running, the stream was running. There was no need to change any of that.

She should have told him two weeks ago.

“You’re still thinking, Swan,” Killian said, taking a step towards her and the sign Roland was clutching had sparkles on it and a video game controller Anna had absolutely drawn.

“So are you.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that might be true.”   
  
Her eyebrows shot up her forehead, several different emotions shooting down her spine at that particular admission. “About?”   
  
“The sun.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You were almost frighteningly on point before, love.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian grinned, mumbling something against Roland’s shoulder that sounded a lot like _don’t hit my kidneys like that, mate_ and they’d been the first ones there, so, naturally, Emma was going to walk into the ceremony late. “I know,” he added. “At some point today, though.”   
  
“You sound like you’ve got, at least, three quarters of a plan.”   
  
“Two-thirds, for sure,” he said with just a bit more confidence and Emma was smiling before she realized her mouth had even moved. “Definitely today.”   
  
“Promises, promises.”   
  
“Absolutely.”

She scrunched her nose, butterflies in her stomach and nerves in the back of her mind and she really hoped she didn’t fall across the stage because she was too busy thinking about that flash of _something_ she could see in Killian’s eyes to walk properly.

“Remember to flip your tassel, Swan,” Killian continued, trying to shift Roland onto the floor so he could take a step into Emma’s space and that didn’t really work, but she almost didn’t care when he kissed her anyway.

She did, in the end, remember to flip the tassel and she didn’t quite stumble when they called her name, but no one in that entire, stupid auditorium noticed, far too distracted by the small eruption of sound that came from three rows in the back corner.

They called _Emma Swan_ and she shook hands with some city official Killian probably knew the name of as well, but she barely even registered any of that, something she couldn’t name working through every inch of her as she turned towards the noise.

Ruth was still crying, joined by Mary Margaret and Anna and, _jeez_ , Ruby and Emma was never going to let her live that down, even if it meant she had to hear about hickey-gate every day for the rest of her life. Henry was standing on a chair, Regina with a hand on his back and the sign held as high above his head as he could reach and Robin was still taking photos.

Will was just making noise, screaming through cupped hands while he jumped up and down next to Elsa who had both hands on the side of her face and appeared to be just a few moments away from joining the crying brigade at the other end of the row.

David wasn’t actually crying, but his shoulders weren’t quite even either and he had _that look_ on his face, chest heaving just a bit like he’d run a marathon and _pride_ was a good look on him.

And Killian.

Killian who was, still, somehow, holding Roland Locksley and staring at Emma like...a string of adjectives he’d probably be able to come up with.

She flipped her tassel.

There were more pictures and there wasn’t actually a degree in that little folder thing they handed her on stage because New York City was New York City, so naturally there was more paperwork to fill out, but Emma almost wasn’t totally infuriated by that, trying to wade her way through some kind of metaphorical sea of feelings and home and _team_ , in more ways than one.

Mary Margaret didn’t just make those cookies Emma was obsessed with either – she made Henry cupcakes and bought _fancy_ hot chocolate and cheesy Party City decorations and the paper napkins all had graduation caps on them.

Emma found Mary Margaret in the kitchen – trying to time up appetizers and her tiny oven and the microwave and the coffee maker was already on. “Hey,” Emma said, wincing when Mary Margaret jumped. “Just me, just me.”  
  
Mary Margaret widened her eyes, huffing slightly and Emma smiled apologetically, holding her hands up, and the glasses in them, slightly. “God, you scared me.”   
  
“Yeah, I picked up on that. You ok? You need help?”   
  
“Nah,” Mary Margaret shook her head. “Are you ok? This is a lot of...family.”   
  
“Yeah, it is. That’s...uh, that’s why I came to find you, actually.” Emma clicked her tongue when she stumbled over the words and Mary   
Margaret narrowed her eyes slightly. “I just...well, I brought alcohol as some kind of thank you and you’re the best and this is...you’re the reason I believe, M’s. All that happy ending talk stuck, I guess.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s mouth dropped and Emma tried not actually wince, certain she’d get a slightly better reaction than that, but she hadn’t really gotten the words out very well. “I can’t take that,” Mary Margaret said.

“What?”  
  
“That,” she repeated, nodding towards the cup in Emma’s hand. “I can’t drink that.”   
  
“What? It’s good, fancy...I mean, Regina bought it so...oh shit.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed softly, pulling her lips back behind her teeth and widening her eyes. “Got there, huh? That was incredibly quick.”   
  
“I live with a journalist, I’m all kinds of perceptive now.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”  
  
Emma let out a rush of air and she must have been holding her breath because the noise she made was a mix of a sigh and an exclamation and she was the one crying. “God, that kid’s going to have everything.”   
  
“That’s the idea at least. And you should go home.”   
  
Emma blinked. “What? M’s, c’mon, you tell me you’re pregnant and then you kick me out of your apartment? Does David know?”   
  
“I’m not kicking you out of anything. And of course David knows, but only David. We haven’t told Ruth yet.”   
  
“You told me before you told Ruth?” Emma asked, doing her best not to just start sobbing in the kitchen. Mary Margaret grinned. “And you just told me to go home.”   
  
“Well, I don’t know where you’ll go when you leave here, but I do know that if you don’t get out of here, soon, Killian might actually self   
combust.”   
  
“What do you know?”   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“You and Killian should honestly stage some sort of lying contest.”   
  
“It’s not a lie,” Mary Margaret corrected. "It’s an aversion to the truth in very specific circumstances.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes – she couldn’t actually do that eyebrow thing Killian did – but Mary Margaret didn’t say anything else, just nodded back towards the couch and Killian wasn’t sitting down. He was pacing. In front of the window, while both Robin and Will took turns shooting him furtive glances.

“I’m going to leave now, apparently,” Emma muttered and Mary Margaret just shrugged, a knowing smile on her face that almost matched up perfectly with David’s. Ruth was still crying. “But...for real, this is...I will battle Ruby to some kind of MarioKart death to be the most obsessed with mini-Blanchard comma Nolan.”  
  
Mary Margaret laughed, eyes almost on the wrong side of glossy and Emma couldn’t breathe when she felt arms wrapped around her. “You’re definitely the front-runner,” Mary Margaret mumbled into Emma’s shoulder blade.

“And you’re the only reason I know any of this works.”

“Swan.”  
  
Emma snapped backwards, Killian eyeing her hopefully – and still just a bit nervously, that wasn’t a word, God – arms crossed lightly over his chest and Mary Margaret made a noise that might have been words.

“You done digging your ditch, then?” Emma asked and Killian quirked his eyebrow in confusion. She nodded back towards the window, fairly certain she’d actually see track marks left behind. She didn’t. It was a hardwood floor – science or something.   
  
“Ah, right,” Killian muttered, tugging on the back of his hair. “Yeah, no, there was no ditch.”   
  
Emma chewed on her lip, glancing towards Mary Margaret who appeared more than ready to push them both out the door if necessary. It wasn’t. “You want to take a walk or something?” she asked, stepping into his space and pulling his fingers out of his hair. “Find a fountain?”   
  
He almost smiled, fingers lacing through hers out of instinct. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, Swan.”   
  
“A fantastic idea,” Mary Margaret added, ignoring whatever glare-type look Killian shot her direction. She nudged on Emma’s shoulder lightly, nodding towards the door. “Call me, later, like, you know, way later. Or at some point. Tomorrow. Call me tomorrow.”   
  
“What is going on?” Emma asked. Killian and Mary Margaret could have both been statues for as much as they moved in response. She sighed, rolling her whole head and only pausing long enough to kiss Ruth’s cheek and promise they’d meet up for dinner the next day.

They were walking east. And that didn’t make any sense at all because they lived north and west of Mary Margaret and David’s apartment, but it was that kind of day and Emma wasn’t really sure what was going on and, well, it had been a lot of family.

There weren’t any fountains east. There was the FDR Drive and...consulates.

“I had no idea all of these things were over here,” Emma said, breaking the relative silence because they were still in the middle of Manhattan and nothing was ever really quiet.

“What?” Killian asked.

She waved her free hand through the air – the other one still wrapped up in his – and she could practically hear his distraction. “This, consulates and the entire goddamn United Nations. Well, I knew that was here, so I guess the consulates make sense, but c’mon, what is going on with you? Seriously. You’re freaking me out.”  
  
“That is actually the opposite of what I’m trying to do.”   
  
“Talk to me then.”

Killian took a deep breath, eyes wide with several dozen emotions and they were standing in front of the Consulate General of Luxembourg. It almost smelled like the ocean, waves almost audible if Emma strained to hear them and it wasn’t really late, but it was the middle of June and diplomats probably didn’t work during the summer.

It was, almost, quiet.

“I love you,” he said, but with a quiet urgency that didn’t quite make sense.

Emma nodded slowly. “I love you, too. Was that the answer?”  
  
“You didn’t ask a question, Swan.”   
  
“I’m not the journalist in this relationship.”   
  
Killian scoffed and the smile was still a bit nervous – he hadn’t let go of her hand. If anything he held on tighter. He squeezed one eye shut, tilting his head and Emma tried not to wilt under the force of his stare, all those adjectives she hadn’t been able to come up with before reappearing in force.

“Alright,” Emma said, seizing control of the conversation and, eventually, she’d realize that’s where she went wrong. “I do have a question.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Um...we haven’t really decided one way or another, but, uh there’s another thing. An Overwatch thing happening. In a couple of months and it’s, you know, probably not more organized crime, maybe, fingers crossed, but they’re trying again and doing area-specific teams and, well….Ruby got the email.”   
  
“This is still not a question, love.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes and the whiplash through emotions was...weird. Killian smiled at her, tugging her back against his chest and the waves weren’t just loud, they were causing wind or something and that was more science that was decidedly out of place for the conversation they were, maybe, having.

“Ruby got the email,” she repeated. “Two weeks ago. And the league people contacted us, which didn’t happen the first time and Els thinks that’s a good sign and we could all still stream, Belle read the contract and this thing wants us to be popular and there’d be some travel involved and…”  
  
“And?”

“And it might be a good story.”  
  
He kissed her. Again. And she wasn’t entirely ready for it, swaying slightly in her flats and the wind and the goddamn ocean air and she probably wouldn’t be able to find Luxembourg on a map. Emma wound her fingers through the bottom of Killian’s hair, trying to make sure he couldn’t pull away and it didn’t really matter because he didn’t seem all that inclined to stop.

Breathing, eventually, became a necessity and Emma tried to regain her equilibrium when he brushed his thumb across her jaw.

“Was there actually a question in there, love?” Killian asked. “And is that what you’ve been thinking about all day?”

“Yeah, to that second one. And the question isn’t so much a question as it is a request. I mean, if we’re going to do this and there’s going to be coverage anyway, then you might as well write it, right?”  
  
“A glowing review.”

“I’m serious. I...I want you to.”  
  
And it was like any worry or nerves or _whatever_ he hadn’t been telling her all day disappeared, replaced with something that felt akin to being stared at by the sun.

Oh.

_Oh._

She was incredibly quick on the uptake that day. It was probably because she had a degree – or would have a degree in six to eight weeks once she paid the city of New York fifty more bucks.

“The sun,” Emma mumbled. “Like the sun.”

Killian, somehow, managed to take a step towards her or just occupy the same space and Emma was positive she could feel him everywhere or maybe she was just delirious because she couldn't actually remember the last time she took a deep breath.

“Do I get my follow-up, now?” he asked softly.

She heard him perfectly. “Yeah, ok.”  
  
“You know when I got here, I thought I’d be gone in a couple of months,” Killian said. “That’s why it took so long to get out of the hotel and Scarlet’s and it wasn’t...I didn’t want to stay until you, Swan. I was...it didn’t matter, none of mattered and then all of it mattered and then some in a way I couldn’t remember anything ever actually mattering.”

He let out a shaky breath, licking his lips quickly and Emma’s lungs were _on fire_ , she was sure of it. “And I know it hasn’t been...well, it hasn’t been easy, right? But I would do it all again if it meant we ended up here. So there can be stories or no stories and every site I write for could just explode or however the internet works and I will still be right here, with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”   
  
She still wasn’t breathing.

She was surprised she was even standing.

“That’s not a question,” Emma said, pushing her finger into his chest and she didn’t remember moving her hands.

_Idiot_.

Killian laughed. “That’s true,” he agreed, leaning back to pull something out of his pocket.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathed, and there was more laughter and, somehow, still vaguely coherent thoughts and there was a ring.

He got down on one knee. In front of the Consulate General of Luxembourg. “Emma, will you marry me?”

She wanted to respond immediately. She did. Honestly. And she’d have been lying if she said she hadn’t thought about _this_ for just...a questionable amount of time. So, naturally, Emma didn’t do anything the way she thought she would.

She jumped at him instead.

And, really, that almost made more sense.

Killian had to throw his hand back to keep from crashing into the sidewalk and, at least, three cars honked as soon as Emma fell against him, but she was laughing and smiling and maybe crying, _again_ , and he was still holding the ring.

“Swan,” he muttered, but it barely sounded like her name in between the kissing and the honking and the goddamn waves. How were there waves? Wasn’t it a river? God, she should have paid more attention in that not-quite science class.

“I thought we’d agreed on this no talking thing before,” she said. They were _sitting_ on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, but that was before we started asking questions.”  
  
She kissed him again, appreciating that soft sound he made when she opened her mouth slightly and the weight of his hand on her back was a comfort she was never quite sure she’d ever actually get used to. “I love you,” Emma whispered.

“Was that an answer?”

“You’re really harping on this, huh?”  
  
“It’d be a bit helpful to get an actual response, Emma. On the record, as it were.”   
  
“Idiot.”   
  
“That wasn’t really the response I was hoping for.”

Emma grinned – butterflies and belief and _hope_ and this was _the moment_. “Of course,” she said, and Killian might have jumped that time, some kind of celebratory sound on his lips that disappeared as soon as they met hers.

And someone in a car yelled _get a room_ and, well, they did, theirs, but only after they scandalized the cab driver by making out in the backseat for an entire cross-town trip and Emma didn’t turn her phone back on when it died at some point in the middle of the night, far too focused on this and them and the way the light from the street reflected off her ring.

It was, as far as moments went, the best one.

* * *

_Three Years Later_

It was, approximately, eight-hundred degrees outside.

And he had to wear a tux.

He did not want to wear a tux. He did not want to go to this thing. Ceremony. Event. _Whatever_.

“If you stare at your phone any harder, you’re going to actually crack the screen.”  
  
Killian spun on the spot, nearly dropping his phone in the process and _oh_. Maybe he didn’t mind going to this ceremony, event _thing_. If it meant that dress existed and it existed on Emma – his _wife_ , which was still taking some time to get used to – then maybe it was worth it to be paraded around like some kind of journalism peacock.

Emma smiled slightly, a nervous edge that didn’t belong there when she was wearing that dress and he was having a hard time remembering his own name, let alone how to properly compliment his wife.

“If you stare at me any harder, you might actually break me,” she said, taking a step towards him and his hands fell on her hips out of instinct and years of practice and a year and a half of marriage.

Killian shook his head, trying to remember the English language or even conversational French and his jaw felt like it was locked in place. Emma leaned back, eyeing him speculatively and she already knew.

“They said maybe today,” she whispered, mostly into his shoulder and he tightened his hand.

“It’s not very timely, Swan,” Killian mumbled. “Maybe we shouldn't go.”  
  
“You just don’t want to go and you’re using this as an excuse.”   
  
“That’s not true, at all.”   
  
“Couldn’t even make it sound like the truth, huh?” Emma asked, leaning back and maybe if they didn’t have to go so he could just spend the rest of the night trying to memorize the, approximately, eighteen different shades of green in her eyes and _hoping_ and coming up with a compliment about that very distracting dress.

Probably not.

“You look incredible, you know that?” Killian muttered, appreciating the soft flush that crept across Emma’s cheeks and maybe they could just spend the rest of the night in that very specific spot in their room and maybe there’d be a hell of lot of kissing involved.

That, almost, seemed responsible.

He really did not want to go to this thing.

Not when _they_ were _maybe_ going to call at some point that day and it was already six o’clock and half of him had resigned himself to the idea that no one was going to call because it was Friday and the city of New York loved to just stop working, collectively, at four o’clock on Friday nights.

“You’re not wearing a tie,” Emma said, and it was enough to pull Killian out of thoughts that weren’t so much thoughts as they were complaints and a very thin shred of patience he was barely clinging to.

“I thought I’d live on the edge.”

“Regina will be pissed.”

“Gina can deal.”  
  
“C’mon, she’s been really helpful the last couple of months.”

That was true. She had. And Killian wasn’t going to be able to get out of this night or the tie or the tuxedo jacket he’d have to put on despite whatever heat wave had descended on the entire island of Manhattan earlier that week.

Regina had actually spent most of the last few months on the phone  – since he and Emma had decided and it wasn’t really so much a decision as it was just _obvious_ and, God, he _wanted_ – talking to people and agencies and calling someone she knew in Children’s Services every other day, demanding updates about paperwork and files and promising that _Emma Swan and Killian Jones are some of the best people I know, make this happen Mark_.

He didn’t know who Mark was, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to hear that conversation.

And he should really work on being less of an asshole.

Maybe _they_ knew that and that’s why they hadn’t called. Ah, that was depressing. Regina would probably smack him if she knew he was thinking that.

And then promise _this is going to work_ because he and Emma were married and they had money and were willing to move and the site was doing well – would be doing even better if the night went the way it was supposed to – and Emma was some kind of legitimate celebrity now.

They started counting the number of times people asked her to pose for selfies every time they went out now.

The high was twenty-two one time they went out downtown and Ruby still brought it up every time they streamed – but only after she mentioned that the grand return of Widow’s Wail had ended in an actual video game title and a very large monetary prize and _this should work_.

They should have called by now.

“You should really put a tie on,” Emma said, tapping her finger on the row of buttons on his shirt. He grabbed her hand, tugging it up to brush his lips over her knuckles and she exhaled softly, eyelashes fluttering and it was going to work.

“You’re going to have to tie it, love.”  
  
“I watched some videos.”

“Did you really?”

Emma flushed again, shrugging slightly and she wasn’t wearing shoes yet, pressing up on her toes to rest her hands on his shoulders. “They’re going to call, right?” she asked, quieter than anything else she’d said and Killian’s heart stuttered in his chest.

It hadn’t really been a big wedding, all things considered – a loft on the West Side and photos in Lincoln Center, which, required, just an absurd, amount of paperwork since Lincoln Center was private property, but that tour guide, apparently, had some pull and knew a security guard who was willing to let them pose for half an hour while quietly looking the exact opposite direction.

It had been freezing. It was December. And windy. And Emma’s teeth chattered when Killian announced _we’re going to get coffee_ , directing them both to the Starbucks at the end of the block and a barista who looked more than a little stunned to find them at the register.

Killian stole her cinnamon.

He gave it to her that night – feet on the wrong side of sore after Ariel decreed that _this is a wedding, there will be dancing, get up_ and Mary Margaret and David booked them a hotel a few blocks from the park, promising _you can’t stay in your own apartment on your wedding night_. Well, Mary Margaret said that. David didn’t seem very interested in discussing the wedding night.

“Have you been carting this around in your pocket the whole time?” Emma asked, fingers in his hair and a smile on her face with blankets pooled at her waist.

Killian grinned, balancing the plastic container in tiny amount of space between them. That bed was enormous – they were taking up, approximately, two feet. “It was in my jacket pocket,” he said. “There’s probably just a small mound of cinnamon in there now.”  
  
“Good thing you bought it.”   
  
“The cinnamon or the jacket? Because I promise, Swan, I did not buy this cinnamon.”   
  
“The jacket,” she laughed, hair everywhere and eyes bright and they should probably buy that hotel too, just so they never had to leave it. “I’d be scandalized if you actually bought that cinnamon. And what would you even offer them? It’s, technically, free.”   
  
Killian blinked, trying to memorize all of it – the light in the room somehow making her hair seem lighter and the feel of her legs tangled in between his and how she traced her fingers over his left arm without even thinking about it, prosthetic resting on the table behind him.

“I think I’d be willing to overpay,” he said, and it was absolutely a line, but it absolutely worked and neither one of them spent much time discussing cinnamon the rest of the night.

They did, however, discuss something else and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, _wanted it_ , maybe just a bit desperately from the very beginning, thinking things far earlier than normal relationship schedules dictated.

It didn’t really matter.

Emma brought it up.

He should have figured.

He was brushing his teeth – standing barefoot in the very fancy, marble-floored bathroom of that very fancy hotel and they needed to leave because there was a check-out time and that was just _absurd_ because the only thing he really wanted to do was spend the next several weeks with his wife in bed. He saw her in the mirror before she said anything, lip twisted in between her teeth and a smudge of makeup under her eye that hadn’t actually washed off when they’d tested the shower the night before.

They didn’t really shower.

“I have a question,” Emma started, hopping onto the edge of the comically large sink and swinging her legs out in front of her. “Or, well, more of a statement, I guess? No, it’s definitely a question.”  
  
He was still brushing his teeth, eyebrows lifted slightly in response and she didn’t look away from him when she started talking again. “Do you...I mean...maybe...would you ever want a kid?”

He swallowed all the toothpaste in his mouth and then nearly choked. The morning after his wedding. Emma bit her lip even tighter.

“What?” Killian asked. Emma winced and, no, that wasn’t right. That was the opposite of right. He shook his head quickly and there was still toothpaste in his mouth, but he ran the back of his hand over his lips and tried to promise _everything_ without actually saying all of it at once. “No, no, Swan, that’s...that wasn’t what I meant.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No, the opposite of no.”   
  
“Is usually yes.”   
  
“Then, yeah, that.”   
  
She stopped biting her lip. And it was like seeing the sun and that wasn’t a metaphor he’d thought of in, at least, a year and a half, but that’s exactly what it was and the science kind of checked out. “Yeah?” Emma whispered, and Killian nodded quickly, likely doing permanent damage to his neck in an attempt to make his point.

“Unequivocally.”  
  
“Good word.”

Killian hummed, trying to keep the toothpaste out of the conversation as he moved in between Emma’s legs. “What brought that on, Swan?” he asked softly, desperate to keep his voice steady on each word and that was almost as challenging as talking through a mouth full of toothpaste.

“I don’t know...I mean, we’ve kind of talked about. Something about responsibility, but, uh, well, M’s sent me a picture and Ruthie did something absolutely adorable and, well, I started thinking again and…”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And, uh, I mean...it was cute and I…”   
  
He lifted his eyebrows, resting his hand on her thigh and they could afford another night in that hotel. Absolutely. Definitely. He was married to an internet celebrity. Not that he’d make her pay for the hotel.

That probably wasn’t a very romantic start.

“But I’ve had another thought,” Emma continued, the words just a bit more certain than they’d been while discussing the perpetual adorable’ness of Ruth Nolan. The younger version.

“Which is?”  
  
“You know, eventually, if it happens….that’s good and everything, but I thought…”   
  
Oh.

_Of course_.

And something in the back corner of his mind – the front corner too, if he was being honest, every single inch of him practically screaming in agreement and hope and maybe they could start researching how this worked now and he should find his phone.

He could search things on his phone.

Adoption.   
  
He knew. And Killian wasn’t ever sure _how_ he knew, but he did and he _wanted_ and he was nodding before Emma could get another word out. “Yes,” he said, far louder than he expected to, but he’d more or less lost control of just about everything.

“What? I didn’t get to the question.”  
  
“Yes,” Killian repeated, ducking his head until he was in her eye line and the world suddenly felt a bit more positive and a hell of a lot brighter and he hadn’t expected that after the day before, but he wasn’t going to argue it.

He was going to fill out a shit ton of paperwork.

“That whole open book thing seems like cheating in moments like this,” Emma grumbled. “I had a whole spiel planned. I had reasons. And ideas. And explanations.”  
  
“I don’t need any of those.”   
  
“But I had them.”   
  
“And I appreciate the thought behind all of those things, love, but I really don’t need them. You don’t have to try and convince me of anything.”   
  
She sagged forward slightly, resting her head against his shoulder and the goddamn sink was in the way so he couldn’t actually step close enough to her, but Killian tried anyway, wrapping his arm around her waist and trailing kisses along her neck.

“We just could help,” Emma mumbled and Killian’s heart grew forty-seven sizes. “And I wouldn’t even care about age, but if we could get a kid out before it got bad then…  
  
“Yes,” he said again, a broken record of emotion and feeling and a want that was probably bordering close to selfish.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”

They started researching the next day – after he called the front desk and told them they’d need another room and they didn’t actually go outside. And nearly a year and a half later, they’d finally, _finally_ , gotten some kind of response.

Or a promise for a response. Soon. Maybe.

They’d called Emma three days before, at a very appropriate two-thirty in the afternoon, and told them they’d received their paperwork and were processing, whatever that meant, and there were more _levels_ to get through and that wasn’t the word they used. That’s what Emma kept calling it.

It made Killian smile – when he wasn’t too busy being _stressed the fuck out_. Because the next level was pre-adoption and a trial run with a kid, a kid who could become their kid and it would be fine, he knew it would be fine, knew they’d love any kid unequivocally and irrevocably, but the waiting was not-so-slowly driving him insane.

“They’re going to call, Swan,” he said, doing his best to sound as confident as he absolutely did not feel.

Emma rolled her eyes, glowering at him and he hadn’t noticed she’d brought his tie into the bedroom. She slung the material around his neck, working it under his collar and his jacket was...somewhere.

She probably knew where his jacket was.

“Soon,” Emma added, fingers moving quickly and she clicked her tongue when he tried to nod. He nearly choked himself in the process.

Regina would kill him if he died before this thing.

“Absolutely,” Killian promised.

“You look nice counselor. We’ll probably look good in the pictures, maybe we can send those to the people, let them know we clean up well.”  
  
“That’s absolutely going to make all the difference.”   
  
“At least a good picture. Mary Margaret wanted one. She helped pick out the dress.”   
  
“I should probably thank her.”   
  
“It’s a good dress, right?”   
  
“A fantastic dress,” he agreed, dragging his hand down the curve of her hip and moving his eyebrows until Emma actually laughed, resting her hands flat against the front of his shirt. It was buttoned now. He hadn’t even realized she’d buttoned his shirt.

God, he was losing his mind.

These people needed to call.

Tongiht.

Two hours before.

“If we are late to this thing, Regina is going to riot,” Emma muttered. “And we can’t leave Scarlet there to charm investors. That’s just going to end in disaster.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes. “There shouldn't even be investors. The site’s doing fine. We’re making money. We had to give our tax returns to Child Services.”

“I don’t think that makes much of a difference to the investors. Or the advertisers. Especially the advertisers. And this is part celebration too, you know that.”  
  
It was.   
  
It was some kind of anniversary and the site was some kind of _accredited source_ that broke news and told good stories, but journalism was, well, journalism and Regina wasn’t Cora, but she was still almost constantly worried about investors and advertisers and there were always more to find of both.

That required Killian to wear a tuxedo in a heat wave and Emma to wear a dress he’d probably think about into the afterlife.

“At last count there were fifteen prospective advertisers set to be wined and dined downtown tonight,” Killian said. “Not to mention the usual suspects and A’s supposed to be working some kind of charm circuit to prove to all of them that our numbers are real.”  
  
“Do they think your numbers aren’t real?”   
  
“I think they are surprised by how real our numbers are.”   
  
“That kind of sounded like a line to the numbers.”   
  
Killian laughed, some of the frustration at his incredibly silent phone and incredibly overheated body melting away as soon as he looked at Emma and it was going to work. Eventually. They just had to be patient.

“I promise, Swan, the only person I am interested in using undeniably romantic lines on is you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead and he didn’t even need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes.

“That was the worst line you’ve ever used.”  
  
“That can’t possibly be true.”   
  
“I am well acquainted with your charms, counselor, I’m not lying.”

He was going to kiss her – again or maybe just tug her towards the bed or the counter or _whatever_ , but he didn’t get a chance.

A phone started ringing.

And it was like the whole world froze and Killian swore he could almost feel the air stop moving in his lungs, stuck halfway in his throat and flying out his mouth when his jaw actually dropped open.

“It’s late,” Emma muttered, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself it couldn’t be what they both so desperately wanted it to be. “It’s probably Scarlet demanding we share a cab downtown because he doesn’t want to pay.”  
  
“That actually makes a ton of sense.”   
  
“I think that’s my phone.”   
  
“That’s your ring tone.”   
  
“We have the same ring tone.”   
  
“We have different kinds of phones, your ring tone is...it’s different,” Killian stammered, the words flipping on the edge of his tongue like every single one of his internal organs and if it _was_ Scarlet demanding they share a cab he wasn’t going to be held accountable for the amount of rum he drank at this very fancy, very corporate event.

“I’m going to go answer my phone.”  
  
Killian nodded, suddenly unable to come up with any words – positive or negative or, just, generically frustrated – and Emma pulled up the bottom of her dress to actually run back down the hallway.

He could hear her answer and he probably should have sat down because his legs felt like jello or pudding or some vaguely disgusting mixture of both, but Killian was fairly certain he wasn’t actually getting enough oxygen to his brain, so staying in one place seemed like the best option.

And it seemed to last forever, but that might have been the oxygen deprivation or the way Emma’s voice picked up the longer the conversation went on and the words started to slur together a bit.

That might have just been Killian’s vision.

It seemed to last forever, but, eventually, he realized, it was only a few minutes and he heard Emma’s footsteps before he saw her.

She was smiling.

And she nodded.

He never really knew who moved first, just that they moved towards each other, a mess of hands and lips and matching smiles and laughter and _they’d called back_.

“I love you,” Killian whispered, pressing the words against Emma’s neck and the curve of her jaw and the skin behind her ear and he could feel her smile against his cheek, tears that might have been hers or possibly his and it didn’t really matter one way or another.

They were late.

And Scarlet had left four voicemails asking to share a car.

“What the hell, Hook?” he demanded as soon as the Uber they, eventually, got stopped in front of another Manhattan loft. Killian was still smiling. “What’s going on with your face?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Killian asked, holding his hand out towards Emma and slinging his arm around her shoulders as soon she moved next to him. “Haven’t we done this before? This all seems strangely familiar.”   
  
“Yeah, but you’re allowed to flaunt your disgusting romance at this company event.”   
  
“Delightful as always, Scarlet.”   
  
“Ass.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
Will deflated at that, eyes flashing towards Emma like he was looking for backup or an explanation and groaning when he didn’t get either. “What’s going on with you guys?” he pressed, stepping forward to knock the toe of his shoe against Killian’s ankle. “You’re all freaky, smile guy.”   
  
“Freaky, smile guy,” Emma laughed, letting her weight fall against his side and he absolutely tightened his arm. And kissed her hair. Will groaned.

“What is going on? You know Gina’s losing her shit in there? She had this whole schedule, Hook. You were supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago so she could parade you and your awards around and people would just start throwing money at us.”  
  
“That is absolutely not what the plan was,” Killian muttered, and he tried to be annoyed. He did. But _they’d called_ and there was a new schedule he was, suddenly, far more interested in and a nine o’clock appointment a week from Monday that was going to change everything.

God, he was happy.

_Elated. Thrilled. Ecstatic. Joyful._

“It was kind of like that,” Will argued, snapping his head back when the doors opened again and a clearly frustrated and annoyed Robin glared at all of them.

“What the hell, Hook?” he yelled, throwing his hands up and rolling his whole head with his eyes and his shoulders. He kicked Killian’s ankle. “There was a plan! You were supposed to be here hours ago.”  
  
“Oh my God, it was forty-five minutes,” Emma muttered, and Killian kissed her hair again.

Robin’s expression didn’t change.

“A is running out of numbers to talk about. She’s started repeating things and Gina’s almost actually steaming. That’s not even hyperbole, Hook. That is an actual fact.”  
  
“Stewing,” Will added. “Audibly. She just keeps muttering about all the different places she’s going to send you.”   
  
“What?” Killian asked, but he was only half listening, fingers moving up and down Emma’s back and it was absolutely disgusting outside. He was going to sweat to death before Regina even got to him.

“Hell, Hook. A variety of different hells and underworlds and did you know how many different Greek gods could curse you to all of those places?”  
  
“No,” he said at the same time Emma said “yes” and Will gaped at both of them.

“What is going on?” he asked again, stomping his foot for emphasis.

Robin narrowed his eyes.

“That’s probably a good skill, Swan,” Killian said, ignoring his friends and the string of questions Will was shouting at them. “Good for homework. Book reports.”  
  
She scrunched her nose, hands still gripping the lapels of his jacket and that felt a bit familiar too. “We’re, like, homework experts at this point anyway.”   
  
“That’s definitely true. She’ll probably be a genius.”   
  
“It could be a boy. They weren’t specific on the phone.”   
  
It was like both Will and Robin erupted, right there on the sidewalk, exclamations and shouting and several words that absolutely sounded like _what the fuck is going on, Hook_. Will smacked him, both hands hitting against his shoulder and his forearm and ribs that sometimes, still, ached just a bit before it rained.

“Are you kidding me?” Will shouted, and his feet had joined the melee, bouncing back and forth to try and keep his balance while still connecting with Killian’s ankle.

“Scarlet, if you keep beating up Killian, we’re just going to go back home,” Emma warned, and her voice almost sounded threatening, but she was still smiling and she hadn’t actually taken a step back.

The muscles in their cheeks were going to get overworked.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Will muttered, hands in the air when the door opened again. Robin was frozen – staring straight at Killian with something that felt like disbelief and a hell of a lot like pride.

Ariel ran towards them, eyes somewhere close to _on fire_ , and Regina wasn’t far behind her, still muttering under her breath and glaring at Killian like he’d committed several felonies or been sent to a medium-security prison upstate.

“What the hell, Killian,” Regina screeched, and he tried not to roll his eyes, certain it would just end with more kicks at his ankle.

“You’ve got to get here quicker, Gina,” Will muttered. “We’ve done all of this already. You’ve missed all the breaking news.”  
  
Ariel made some kind of gagging noise, sticking her tongue out and Will grinned at her. “Don’t be a jerk,” she chastised. “Killian, you were supposed to be here, like, days ago. Is everything...oh. Oh! Oh my God, for real?”   
  
Killian moved his eyebrows, the smile on his face, somehow, getting wider and Emma laughed, burrowing further against his side and she might have actually been bobbing up and down on her feet. Ariel absolutely was.

She started jumping – hands pressed over mouth when she just started making some kind high-pitched noise that only certain animals could likely hear. “Guys,” she shouted, jumping towards Emma and Killian and grabbing both of their shoulders with her hands. “You have to answer the question!”  
  
“Was there a question in there?” Killian asked, chuckling when Ariel stuck her tongue out again.    
  
“To be fair, I was still kind of thinking about homework,” Emma admitted. “Although now we know they’ll be good at Greek mythology and vocabulary tests.”

“See, genius. Genius kid.”  
  
“Oh, damn we didn’t tell Mary Margaret yet.”   
  
“She’ll understand.”   
  
Ariel shrieked again, actually getting a good amount of air on her latest leap and Regina had gone slack jawed, not cursing Killian to any location, demonic or otherwise. She had the same look on her face that was, practically, etched on Robin’s at this point.

“Killian,” she breathed, and it came out like a whisper, barely audible over the party and the cars and he nodded.

Regina wasn’t much of a hugger – usually more apt to _tell_ Killian how she was feeling, frequently with a very specific brand of sarcasm, but it had been a _night_ in some kind of life-changing way and so it almost figured that she’d hug him.

Or both him and Emma, who was still tugged up against his side and they were some weird, three-person, blob by the end of it all with more tears and more laughing and Will’s phone shutter clicking in the background.

“For Mary Margaret,” he explained and, well, that almost made sense too.

“When?” Regina asked.

They’d all lost the ability to ask questions. They were terrible journalists.  
  
“Next Monday,” Killian answered, and Ariel made another noise, something that sounded a bit like a choked out sob or possibly closer to a whimper. Robin stood up straighter, beaming at him and shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

“It’s kind of a test period,” Emma said. “Not that we’d ever...you know, not want to, but, uh...for the kid and making sure he or she is good in our apartment and that it all kind of gels.”  
  
“It’s totally going to gel,” Will promised, a picture of confidence that shouldn’t have been a surprise. He’d given a very good best man speech, after all, and told Killian if he didn’t get to give his best man speech he’d never talk to him again.

“Absolutely,” Ariel agreed. She was still jumping up and down.

Regina was crying.

Huh.

Killian glanced in Robin’s direction, eyes narrowing slightly when the expression still didn’t change and it felt like a decade and a half earlier and broken feet and broken promises and he hoped….

“He’d be proud of you,” Robin said and any of the air Killian had in his lungs seems to fly out of him in one, enormous huff. “I am...I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

Emma might have pushed him forward, which was probably for the best because Killian’s legs were some brand of dessert again, and he almost crashed against Robin, but he felt arms around him again and all his muscles were a bit too tight and too loose all at the same time.

“Henry and Rol are going to spoil that kid rotten,” Robin continued, gripping both of Killian’s shoulders to look at him. “Best not-quite-cousin a kid could ask for.”  
  
“So, uh, we should drink some super expensive champagne, right?” Will asked.

“Yeah,” Regina replied. “Super expensive champagne.”

They did just that and Killian did, eventually, meet the investors and the advertisers and there were lots of hands to shake and promises to agree to and his left hand never moved away from Emma’s back.

They didn’t really sleep that night – wrapped up in blankets and each other and a whole new set of possibilities and plans and a _future_ that was now, suddenly, laid out in front of them.

They talked about it all.

They talked about schools and commutes and what kind of pie they wanted to bake on Thanksgiving. Cinnamon something, of course. And they talked about vacations and college and homework schedules and maybe, _maybe_ , they’d be mom and dad.

They told Mary Margaret – and David and the rest of Widow’s Wail – and there were more tears and more screams and shouts and Ruby announced _that kid is going to be the best goddamn MarioKart player in the history of the world_ and there was more than one trip to a Target in Queens and a small mountain of supplies and diapers and a crib that took far too long to build and required Killian, David and Robin to make sure it didn’t collapse while Will cackled in the background.

The alarm went off on Monday morning and it didn’t really have to because neither one of them had really fallen asleep the night before, far too wired and anxious and ready and there was a town car waiting for them downstairs.

“We should really buy Regina something,” Emma muttered, sliding into the backseat and lacing her fingers up with his.

“This was A,” Killian said. “She set it all up last night on company dime.”  
  
“We’re doing this weird, history and cyclical thing and it’s kind of freaking me out.”   
  
“It’s symmetrical, Swan. I think it’s a sign.”   
  
“For what?”   
  
“That this is going to work.”

Emma sighed softly, a ghost of a smile flashing across her lips. “Yeah,” she said. “This is absolutely going to work.”

It was a girl.

Or, rather, she was a girl and she was tiny and just a few months old and nothing in the entire world would probably ever convince him that she was anything less than perfect.

Abigail.

The social worker told them her name was Abigail and it _fit_ and Killian’s heart must have exploded because it felt like his chest was too small to contain all of it and Emma squeezed her fingers around his brace.

“Oh, yeah, ok,” Emma murmured, trailing her finger over the curve of a tiny elbow and if his heart hadn’t already exploded or evaporated or done something impossible, he would have been certain it did all of those things again.

Killian never believed in much.

The world had made sure of that – taken everything and everyone he’d loved and twisted it until he hated just about everything and everyone and he never wanted to come back to New York.

He never wanted to come home.

But the world, it seemed, had other plans.

And, well, maybe it was worth the wait.

He was dimly aware of the social worker asking Emma something, but he was too busy trying to find his balance when gravity disappeared to realize that the entire world was about to shift.

Emma muttered a string of words under her breath and Killian glanced up just quick enough to see Abigail move in her arms and breathing was, absolutely, overrated.

“Hey, hi,” Emma whispered, rocking back and forth on her feet and Killian was never going to blink again. “You’re going to come home with us for a little while, ok?”  
  
Abigail made a decidedly months-old baby type of noise and Killian was fairly sure his entire body was just systematically shutting down. He moved forward anyway, fingers tracing out the same pattern Emma’s did over Abigail's arm and he glanced up towards her, lips pressed together tightly and eyes just a hint wider than normal.

He nodded.

“I love you,” she said, and the world righted itself. All over again.

They couldn’t file paperwork immediately, but that was more a technicality than anything and she’d been with them for a month before they were signing on dotted lines and filing more tax returns and proof of their inherent _goodness_ as human beings.

And it took forever, again, but Abigail stayed with them and it took far less than forever to become a family.

They called again on a Tuesday afternoon – paperwork approved and there were court dates to deal with and more things to sign, but it didn’t really matter and Abigail was theirs even without any of it.

“What happens, next, right, Swan?”  
  
She nodded, grinning when he started babbling nonsense at Abigail. “Everything,” Emma said.

And, once upon a time, when Killian Jones, begrudgingly came home, he was certain he was just going to have to figure out a way to survive, to deal with the city and the chaos and, eventually, he’d get out.

He was an idiot.

Liam was probably laughing at him.

And, there, sitting on the couch with Emma next to him and Abigail in her arms, it all seemed to settle, falling into something he’d always wanted and it wasn’t just about surviving, it was about living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! If you are here and read that questionably long epilogue and all these words I cannot even begin to thank you. This story was such a labor of love and trying new things and testing ridiculous plot ideas and you guys clicking and reading and saying such nice things has been the absolute best. 
> 
> I'm a mess of emotions because of it. Thank you. Again. And indefinitely. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


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